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iamjamesmatthew · 5 years

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IAJM INTERVIEW w/ FAHAMU PECOU

Introduce yourself. Who are you? My name is Fahamu Pecou. I'm a visual and performance artist. I'm a scholar... in the words of KRS-1, 'I think very deeply'. I am a husband and a father. I love my family intensely, not just the one I was born to, but my human family. As such, I am a servant. Through my work, ideas, and efforts. I'm invested in creating a world that will improve the quality of life for all people.

Where are you from? When do you start taking your art seriously? I was born in Brooklyn, NY, but I grew up in a small town called Hartsville, S.C. Some of my earliest memories are of drawing. I always appreciated the joy people expressed at my drawings when I was in 2nd grade. I knew then I wanted to be an artist, however, I just didn't know how to go about doing so. People would say artists were starving, or that they didn't make money until after their death. I was not eager for a life like that. In 4th grade, I read a brief biography about Charles Schultz (creator of Charlie Brown and the Peanuts) and the bio mentioned that Schultz was a cartoon animator. By this period in life, I had logged THOUSANDS of hours parked in front of a television watching cartoons, but I'd never considered who was making them, nor had I heard the term "animator". I raced home after school and grabbed the "A" encyclopaedia (the only books in my house was a set of World Book Encyclopedias from 1969). I was referred to "C" for a cartoonist. I read the passage and learned that cartoonists could make upwards of $1000 a week. The year was 1984, so I deduced that they had to be making significantly more and decided then that I would be a cartoon animator. From then until my sophomore year in college, everything I did was about preparing to be a cartoon animator.

In terms of what you do, what makes Fahamu standout from the other artists and painters, today?

I believe every artist is special, unique. I speak from a place of experience. My goal is elevation.

What does your art, in particular, mean to you?

My work is about affirming the quality, the diversity, the HUMANITY of Black men.

What's next for you in 2017, do you have any big projects lined up? If so, what are they?

Currently, I'm working on a new exhibit of works on paper and a sound installation called "The People Could Fly". The exhibit opens February 18 at Conduit Gallery in Dallas Tx. I'll also be exhibiting new work this Fall at Backslash Gallery in Dallas TX. In between, I am completing two large-scale public commissions through an organisation called 'En Route'. These installations push forward notions of social and civic engagement on Atlanta's public transit system, MARTA. Along with partners WonderRoot, GA DOT, MARTA has formed what's known as the transformation alliance. En Route is their first endeavour which sees me produce large scale works at 4 of the city's MARTA stations. Last but not least, my wife and I are launching a new podcast series about relationships called B E T T A H A L F ™.

Who are some of the people who motivated you to pursue art as a career choice? Who gave you that fire to create?

The first would honestly have been the character JJ Evans from the TV show "Good Times". He was the first person I saw who looked like me that was doing something I loved to do.

Since then there have been many others in my personal life to give me a boost or nudge. But chief among them would probably be my elementary school art teacher Mrs. Caroline Govan. As a boy, she always encouraged me to not just be my best, but to do my best. By Mrs. Govan submitting my drawings into regional and state art competitions, she helped me realise that art could be more than a notion. Those experiences also helped me develop confidence in my abilities.

What was your first artistic exhibition? What was that experience like?

My first exhibition was my senior exhibit in college. All graduating fine art majors would produce a solo exhibit, promote and hang the work etc. My exhibit was called "Life After Death". It was my first time acknowledging the trauma of the night my mother was killed. But the experience making and ultimately showing that work taught me something I could never have anticipated. The night of the opening I saw people express shock, sadness, and compassion. Some even thanked me for the courage I showed in revealing such an intimate and painful experience. Others confided in me that the work inspired them to mend wounds and relationships of their own. But ultimately what I saw was the power of art, what it could DO. I decided then that I didn't want to make art for art's sake. I wanted to make work that would help and heal and elevate our humanity.

In your mind and in your heart, why is it important to portray the Black image so prominently in your work?

I believe art has the capacity to not just reflect the best of us, but that it can also project and propel us to be even better. My work centers on the experiences of Black masculinity, not least of all because I feel Black men have historically and systemically been misrepresented, mis-voiced. If you go back through the history of representations, you'll see that for Black people (period) self-representing is a relatively new phenomenon. And even within that conversation, a great majority of the voices discussing Black male masculinity are not the voices of Black men.

As a Black male and an artist, I feel that it is important to tell our stories, to show our experiences, as well as to critique our shortcomings. In doing so, I believe the work allows for a greater sense of connection not just among Black men, but for all people regardless of race or nationality or sexuality or gender. It becomes a human thing- not just a Black thing or a male thing.

There are many who don't project that imagery, I'm curious to know why you choose to do so. Shout-outs. Who in your life would you like to acknowledge or thank for supporting you or providing you with help over the years?

Def a MAJOR shout out to my manager and one of the most amazing people I have ever known, Karen Marie Mason!!! I'd also like to say I'm really fortunate to have a great team of galleries supporting me; Nancy and Danette at Conduit Gallery in Dallas TX, Michael and Deanne at Lyons Wier Gallery in New York, and Delphine and Severine at Backslash Gallery in Paris, France. Every chance I get I always try to thank my mentors Arturo Lindsay and Bill Bounds. BIG BIG love to my wife and best friend, the amazing celebrity vegan chef Jamila Crawford Pècou, our girls Sigele, Tsehai and Oji and my little buddy, my son Ngozi.

#Fahamu Pecou #Brooklyyn NY #Art #Hip Hop #KRS One

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thepoppypress · 3 years

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The Battleline Between Good and Evil (Runs Through the Heart of Every Man)

Chapter 3:

“I can’t believe him!” Peter gritted out as he came at the punching bag with everything he had. Harley winced from the sidelines as she watched his knuckles become absolutely decimated every time his fists came down on the fabric of the bag.

“Maybe lay off a little, Pup? Your hands are looking a little,” she paused, staring at his hands in fascination, “worse for wear.” Peter blinked and looked down at his knuckles, a little shocked to see them split, bloody and bruised.

‘When did I start punching that hard?’

Harley clenched her teeth. She wasn’t unfamiliar with blood, far from it actually. With the amount of help Mister J needed on a weekly basis and her separate work, it was just a natural part of it. An occupational hazard, if you will. She didn’t enjoy spilling blood too much, unless someone really deserved it.

Then, she would really enjoy it, milk it for all it’s worth. However, on Peter, it was just wrong. It was a stark contrast with his pale skin and one she did not like. She wanted to scrub at it until it disappeared completely, so no trace of hurt or discomfort was showing on her friend.

“Here,” she said, holding her hand out to him, and he took it without question, “let’s go and clean that up, huh? Hey Renee! We’re gonna use your first aid kit!” Harley called back to her long time friend, who grunted.

“You know the people who work here?” His friend nodded and grinned.

“We’re pretty tight. Ran together some years ago.” Peter nodded in understanding.

“What did you guys do?” Harley’s smile dimmed a bit and quite noticeably to Peter.

“Ya’know, Puppy,” Harley looked at him with a sad and pleading expression, “you shouldn’t ask questions about things you don’t want to know the answer to.” Peter paused for a second and nodded in return. He’s been there before, not that she would know. He had yet to tell her anything about the other world or about his powers.

There wasn’t any magic here, no aliens, no Superman, no Wonder Woman, and no Batman. News reports didn’t say anything about superheroes and he hadn’t heard anything from Harley, the most accurate and trustworthy source of gossip he has.

Nothing made sense to him here. The only times he had asked about Batman and his associates, he was shut down instantly by Harley, who seemed scared shitless. Even the Joker, while notorious on the streets, wasn't as big a deal as he should’ve been had this world been the canon one.

In the back room, a small TV was playing live news as his alabaster haired friend pulled out a large box, a red cross adorning the side. Harley motioned for him to give his hands and he did without fuss, ignoring the small complaints that Harley gave. These wounds were nothing, after all.

It seemed that there was a large event going on, men in suits in front of a building, two men in the middle shaking hands and smiling towards the cameras that were no doubt flashing into their faces. One man was significantly taller than the other, towering over most people there. A handsome smile built onto his face like it was natural, but to Peter, it didn’t feel right. He was very handsome, with dark blue eyes that shined due to camera lights, dark and slicked back hair, and sun kissed skin. He cut an imposing figure, broad and bulky; it was obvious he worked out. Peter narrowed his eyes. He looked familiar.

“Looking at the news?” Harley asked and Peter hissed as she disinfected his knuckles. His friend murmured an apology, and he ignored the stinging pain, going back to observing the men on TV.

“Yeah,” he replied, “who are they?” Harley glanced at the screen.

“Wayne Enterprises probably expanded again. That must be the new partner and next to him is Brucie Wayne, CEO of WE.” It clicked as soon as she said Wayne Enterprises. Peter’s eyes widened.

Looking closer, he didn’t know why he didn’t see it before. The chestnut haired boy stared at Bruce Wayne for a few moments longer. It felt weird to him that comic book characters were real here. ‘Really weird,’ he thought before flashes of fast movement near the edges of the screen caught his attention. His eyes widened further when he saw a very familiar face. He turned back to Harley, who was wrapping his hands.

“Is Dick related to Bruce?” His friend paused in her actions, looking at him weirdly.

“Uh, yeah?” She stated it like it was obvious. “He’s one of Bruce Wayne’s adopted sons. Oldest of five.”

“Who are the other four?” Harley cut the medical cloth, taping it securely before closing the first aid kit and walking up to the TV. She pointed to two men standing beside Dick, both taller than the handsome annoyance in Peter’s life.

“This one,” she pointed to the tallest standing in the middle, “is Jason Todd. Real shady rumors goin’ around about him. Shady guy in general. Real bad anger problems. Smart guy though. And this one,” she pointed to the last man, “is Tim Drake, heir to the company. Extremely smart. Constantly tired looking. Jason hated him for a while before they seemed to make up. Last one’s Damian Wayne, Bruce’s only biological son and the littlest Wayne. He’s not here. Probably in school. There’s a daughter too. No one really knows about her, just that her name’s Cassandra Cain. She’s the second youngest and never really shows herself in public.”

Peter nodded and observed the Wayne kids that were on the screen. Jason Todd was the tallest by far, probably even taller than his adoptive father. He looked a lot like Dick did with dark hair and blue eyes, though he had a hint of green to them. Weirdest thing was that he had a streak of white going through his bangs. His posture told Peter that he was bored, with his hands in his pockets and his back slightly slouched. Dick nudged him multiple times and seemed to be scolding him mildly, not that he listened. A cocky smirk appeared on his face. Peter shivered. ‘Just like his brother,’ he thought. Next, Peter observed Tim Drake, who too looked like Dick.

‘Bruce Wayne must have a type,’ he thought with a bit of amusement. Long black was collected into a small ponytail at the base of his head, Peter observed as Tim turned his head to look in another direction. His skin was a lot paler than his brother’s and if Peter looked closely, he could see massive dark bags underneath his eyes. His posture was much better than Jason’s, back so straight that it almost looked natural. He smiled politely, though Peter could see that it wasn’t really genuine. Like his other family members, he was dressed immaculately in an expensive suit, but unlike the others, he was typing away at his phone, likely important business if the slight furrow in his brows indicated anything.

“How interesting,” he muttered. Harley’s features scrunched up from the corner of his eye and Peter smiled softly at the cute expression.

“I mean, if you say so, Pup.” Suddenly, his friend hissed. His head snapped towards her.

“What’s up?”

“You’re about to be late for work.” Peter cursed.

-----

Peter panted lightly as he rushed into work. Harley had wanted to come with him but had something else to do. He could already guess what it was.

“Sorry I’m late!” He called. There was no reply so Peter headed into the bar and began to work, but not before noticing a large figure hunched over the counter. Peter smiled. “Hey Slade.” Slade looked up at Peter, a small twitch at the edge of his mouth.

“Hey sweetheart,” he greeted softly and looked around, the twitch becoming a smug smile as he watched people avoid his gaze. “Seems real quiet in here today.” Peter too looked around and noticed that, yes, there wasn’t a fight like usual. There wasn’t even an argument. Peter tilted his head in confusion, a soft furrow in his brows which unknowingly made his large brown eyes larger.

“Weird,” he remarked. Slade glanced toward his favorite bartender, a chuckle rising in his throat. His sweetheart was just too cute. “Oh!” Peter exclaimed, causing the mercenary to look at him. “You know Dick Grayson personally right, Slade?” The older man’s one eye narrowed slightly, and he nodded, trying to ignore the small feeling of jealousy bubbling in his chest. “Can you give him something for me? If you’re going to see him soon?” Pushing the envious feeling aside, Slade nodded once more.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Peter smiled sweetly, and Slade was sure that if he wasn’t so emotionally constipated, he would be blushing. Peter pulled a neatly folded envelope from his back pocket and pushed it towards him. “What’s in it?”

“You can see when Dick opens it. Also, tell me what his reaction is.” That piqued the mercenary’s interest.

“You know, you can just mail it to him. Where he lives isn’t exactly private.” Peter bit his lip, contemplating while Slade’s attention seemed to be on the plump bottom lip that was captured between white teeth. He internally groaned.

‘He’s gonna be the death of me.’ Peter finally seemed to decide something as he straightened up.

“No. It has to come from you. It’ll be funnier that way.” Slade cocked a silver eyebrow.

“Funnier?” Peter grinned, a note of mischievousness peeking from behind innocent, honey brown eyes.

“You’ll see.” Slade stared at him for a second more before shrugging.

“Alright,” he said as he shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket. “I see him tonight anyway, so it works out.” At this, Peter’s grin widened.

“Perfect.”

-----

Peter decided that a walk around the block was a good idea after work. It was quiet out, despite it being Gotham and even though he was tired, there was a restless energy inside him that he had to let out. He was smart enough to bring a thicker jacket this time, courtesy of Harley’s mothering ways. Peter also felt his thoughts quiet for once and he just continued to walk aimlessly, not noticing when he had taken a wrong turn.

It was only 30 minutes later that he realized that the place he stopped in front of had a familiar illuminated sign. Large red letters read, ‘BP Gym.’ He noticed that it was also still open, though empty. Then, his Spidey Sense started humming and he felt a strange pull towards the gym. Peter narrowed his eyes and without another thought, entered the empty looking space.

“Hello?” He called out cautiously, looking from one end of the room to the other, noting the security cameras in every corner. From behind the desk, he could see that the computers were still up and running so someone was here recently.

He was about to go behind the desk when a shout reached his ears, in the direction that Harley had led him this morning to the boxing ring, countless other punching bags and more workout equipment.

He rushed forward, following the grunts of struggle and burst into the open double doors to see two people inside the ring and a few spectators watching on the ground, his loud footsteps catching everyone’s attention. His pale face flushed as about five pairs of eyes stared at him intently.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “I thought I heard a struggle so..” Amused grins lit some faces and others lost interest. Peter observed those in the room. Some were familiar faces he had seen that morning, probably regulars or owners of the establishment. There were only two faces he hadn’t seen in person this morning.

Looking closer, Peter could see one face, grinning viciously with a split lip and a black eye, that looked very familiar to him. In the end, it was the white bangs that reminded him of who this was. ‘Jason Todd,’ he realized. Then, on one of the benches around the ring, sat his brother, Tim Drake, paying him no mind. Only one thought was running through his mind at that particular moment.

‘What the hell are they doing here of all places?’

“Hey,” one of the people he had seen this morning said, “you were with Harley today right? You’re new?”

“Uh, yeah! I just… ya’know, had some extra energy and uh,” he tried to puff up his shoulders like the intimidating man he was (he really wasn’t) but it ended up looking like a shrug more than anything, “aggression that I had to get out. So I was just hoping to use one of your bags?” The people still watching him huffed out some laughs and Peter felt his cheeks warm.

One of the women, Renee, Peter recalled from this morning, gestured for him to follow her but before they could go anywhere, a gruff and deep voice called out to them.

“Ya’know, instead of fighting the bags, why don’t you fight me?” Peter and Renee turned around to see Jason grinning down at them from the ring, the light bending around him to make him look more ominous than he already did.

“C’mon, Jay,” a redheaded male said from beside Jason, “that’s just not fair. He looks like he’d die the moment ya touched him.” Peter frowned at the statement. Jason snorted.

“He needs to learn how to protect himself. There are big, bad people out there.” He was just as obvious as he was mouthy. Peter caught on pretty quick and a streak of irritation flashed through him. There was no hesitation in Peter when Jason turned back to him and said,

“Whatcha say, kid?” Peter stamped down the feeling of annoyance and he turned back around, hearing Renee following after him over the sound of Jason scoffing about him to the man next to him and the unmistakable feeling of Timothy Drake’s eyes on his back.

“What the hell is my luck, running into the Wayne brothers?” He muttered to himself, taking care so that Renee could not hear. She went ahead of him, leading him to a small room, filling with hanging bags and weightlifting equipment.

“Here,” she grunted and left before Peter could thank her. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it onto a bench, heading over to a random bag. His hands were still wrapped from this morning but he had no doubt that the wounds had already healed. He spent at least an hour like that, hitting the bag, trying to get Dick out of his head.

‘Dick and his stupid money,’ were the only things running through his mind the entire time. It was around one in the morning when he stopped, his knuckles ruined like they had been that morning. He sat beside his jacket, his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor when the squeak of the door sounded. Heavy footfalls reached his ears and he looked up to see Jason Todd in all his glory, smirking at Peter.

“Can I help you?” Behind him, Peter could see Tim Drake, typing away on his phone, a concentrated look on his face. Jason shrugged his shoulders.

“Just wanted to see how you were holding up.” Peter levelled him with a look that said he didn’t believe him. Jason chuckled, his white bangs shaking with him.

“Tell me, do you make it a habit to proposition fights with people who look weaker than you?” The taller male gave Peter a toothy smile.

“Only when they look like they need it.” Peter narrowed his eyes, though by the way Jason’s smile became wider, he wasn’t that intimidating.

“Well I don’t need it, but thanks anyway.” Peter stood up and turned his back to Jason, grabbing his coat and making his way towards the door. He heard Jason following him but paid him no mind. Outside, in the hallway, he noticed a small water fountain and feeling thirsty, he headed over, passing Tim Drake without a glance. While he drank, Jason kept talking.

“Aw, don’t be like that, kid! I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime! I’m the best fighter in Gotham!” From behind him, Peter heard a foreign voice snort, likely Tim.

“Don’t let Damian hear you say that.” A scoff.

“Demon Brat has nothing on me.” The rustle of clothes reached Peter’s ears, likely someone shrugging. He finished drinking, thirstier than he thought. ‘On that note, hungrier too. I wonder if Harley’s home yet.’ He bypassed the Wayne brothers, making his way to the front while taking note that they followed him as well, both eyes burning into the back of his neck, analyzing and observant.

“Whadaya say kid?” Peter didn’t turn back to them.

“No thanks,” he said, pushing open the door to face the chilly night, “I don’t want to hurt you.” He started making his way to Harley’s apartment and if his super hearing picked up a harsh bark of laughter from inside the gym, he could always say it was a mistake.

-----

Slade made his way through the crowded room, music and bass booming loudly around him. It was at this point that he wished he had brought his earplugs. Everything was way too loud. He supposed he could blame that on getting older.

The mercenary passed two guards, disguised as bouncers, and both eyed him in distrust. He uttered the password and entered when they opened the door for him, not minding their gazes. A long hallway stretched, furnished elegantly and lit adequately. It definitely gave Slade the feeling of a nice hotel or casino resort. The mahogany door at the end of the hallway was his stop. He approached, knocked once on the dark wood, and entered.

Inside, he found the blonde girl, Stephanie, lounging on a loveseat, her head resting on Damian Wayne’s lap. He was mildly surprised to find him only scowling and not completely overreacting, making a large fuss about someone other than Dick touching him. She laughed at something he said, his scowl deepening and Damian huffed, crossing his arms and settling back into the loveseat with his shoulders slightly slumped.

Adjacent from them, at a large table with plush chairs, sat the red headed girl, Barbara Gordon and next to her sat, shockingly, Jim Gordon, her father and the Commissioner of Gotham PD. He sat with a smile on his face, and chuckled when Dick, who sat across from them, made an offending face at something. Barbara rolled her eyes.

Finally, on a large armchair by a dim fire, sat Bruce Wayne, devil ruler of Gotham’s underground world and the angel of Gotham’s high society. No heads turned but he knew that they all knew that he was there. Slade approached Dick, aware that Damian turned his head to keep an eye on him. He reached into his pocket and threw the envelope his sweetheart had given him earlier. Dick looked down at the crumpled piece of mail before looking up at Slade.

“What’s this, Slade?” He shrugged, nonchalantly sticking his pinky in his ear.

“Something from sweetheart. Told me to give it to you today.” At the mention of ‘sweetheart,’ Dick’s head snapped up and he lunged for the letter, a smug grin eating at his lips. Inside, Dick found two other envelopes, one a light blue in color and the other a light yellow. The yellow one was addressed to Slade and the blue one to Dick.

The dark haired male handed Slade his and viciously opened his own. He emptied the contents of it and found two slips of paper inside. He held each in one hand and inspected them. On one hand, he found the check that he had written Peter, slightly crumpled. On the other was a note that Peter had written him.

‘Fuck you. I don’t need your charity. -P.P.’

Slade, peeking at the note over his shoulder, laughed, loud and booming. Dick scowled and threw the two slips of paper onto the table.

“Shut up,” he muttered. The mercenary, however, continued to laugh, contentious of the fact that everyone was staring at him. Dick’s scowl further deepened before softening to curiousness at the unopened yellow envelope in Slade’s hands. “What’s in yours?” Slade laughed for a couple seconds more before he calmed down a bit and looked down at the yellow piece in his hands, his chest still shaking with a few more chuckles.

Slade fingered it open, his thick fingers dipping inside to pull out a multitude of bills, totalling to over $800. He stared at them, confused for a second before realizing what it was. Slade chuckled some more.

“What is it, Wilson?” Damian’s harsh voice came from the loveseat where both him and Stephanie had sat up in alertness.

“Looks like my sweetheart doesn’t accept charity very well.” Jim and Damian cocked an eyebrow at this while Bruce looked on calmly. Barbara grabbed the two slips of paper on the table while Stephanie got up from her position, making her way over to the table. Barbara too laughed a bit after reading the contents of the note. Dick slumped into his chair further. Stephanie’s reaction was similar to Slade and Barbara’s, cheering at Peter’s boldness.

“That’s my boy!”

“Who would be your boy, Steph?” Bruce timber cut through the laughs, everyone instantly standing at attention at the head’s voice. A small smirk played at his lips at the effect he had on everyone, and he waited for an answer. One always came.

“Just someone we all met. Dick here tried to woo him, but he, uh-” a snicker came out of Stephanie’s mouth, “rebuffed him.” Damian wandered over as well, scowling at the note.

“How vulgar,” he remarked and for the first time, Slade really looked at the youngest Wayne. Dick wasn’t wrong when he had said the boy had grown. He was now a man, nearly as tall as him, and broad too. He was tan and just as brooding as his father. Jade green eyes cut through the soul of everyone it passed over and a handsome face ruined (or accentuated; either way you want to look at it) by the severe scowl he always seemed to be wearing.

“Also!” Stephanie’s loud voice cut through Slade’s thoughts, her finger pointing to him in an accusatory manner. “Since when was he YOUR sweetheart?” Slade smirked.

“Since I met him first.” The caused an outburst from both Stephanie and Dick, only for them to realize that they would have to fight each other and Deathstroke the Terminator for Peter.

“Screw off Dickface! I saw him before you!”

“Steph!” Dick whined.

“And you! He’s my friend! You can’t-” a cough from Barbara interrupted her, and Stephanie continued, “He’s our friend! You can’t have him!” The mercenary grinned, his one eye scrunching up in smugness.

“Oh blondie,” he drawled, “I already have him.” Slade laughed when she lunged forward, barely restrained by her family. While it tested his luck, it was always so fun to rile up the Bats, the aliases they were known as in the underworld.

In the corner, Bruce observed the chaos with a raised eyebrow.

Just who was this man and how did he get some of the most powerful people in Gotham City wrapped around his finger? Bruce’s blue eyes narrowed, his handsome face screwing up slightly. He relaxed himself, leaning back into the plush armchair and thought.

‘How interesting.’

-----

Peter knocked on Harley’s door, hopeful to find a couple of leftovers in her fridge. She never really minded when he came over to eat. Actually, she seemed to enjoy it when he barged in. Usually, she would bounce up to the door, already knowing who it was through the security cameras she hacked (while Peter didn’t condone this, he also knew she was a woman living alone, so precautions had to be taken) and usher him in excitedly.

This time, however, was different. Harley still hadn’t opened the door. Peter frowned. Something was wrong.

“Harley?” He said through the door. “It’s me! Peter! Can you let me in?” Some shuffling came from the other side of the door and Harley’s voice rang out.

“Hey Puppy!” It was a sad excuse of an excited tone. “Look, I’m really sick right now,” she coughed, quite fakely to his ears, “and I don’t want to get you sick. Maybe another time?” Her voice did sound quite hoarse though. Peter shook his head, knowing fully well that she could see him. Through the door, Peter could hear her heartbeat speed up.

His frown deepened and he thought back carefully. She sounds hoarse and bad, she wouldn’t let him, her self-proclaimed light of her life in, and, most importantly, she was doing a job today. It clicked in Peter’s brain. His fists pounded on the door, harder than before.

“Harley!” His voice was urgent and demanding. “Harley! Let me in right now!” A sniffle came from the other side of the door.

“I can’t do that Pup! I don’t want to see you right now!”

“Harley! Let me in or I will break down the door!” He knocked incessantly. “Please! Harley! I’m worried about you!” It seemed that he wore her down (not that it took much) and she opened the door. What Peter saw broke his heart completely.

Harley stood in the doorway, pajamas on and showing all the bruises she had accumulated in one day. Large patches of blue, purple, red, and green bloomed all over her arms and legs, cuts with no bandages on them, and the shadow of a purple handprint left itself around her throat. Peter felt red hot rage start to bubble in his veins. He stomped inside the apartment, his hunger forgotten.

“Who did this, Harley?” He seethed as he looked her over. He wouldn’t dare touch her. He knew what kind of feeling someone would have after that kind of experience and it was not to be touched. She stayed silent and Peter knew the answer.

“That’s it,” he hissed, his hands clenched into fists so tight he knew that there would be indents from his fingernails. “You’re breaking up with him.” Harley shook her head rapidly, wincing when it aggravated some of her wounds. His rage boiled further.

“You know I can’t, Pete,” she rasped, making it clear it was obviously painful to talk. “He’s my Mista J. He’s all I have. You know that.” Peter shook his head and Harley looked at him with wide eyes.

“You’re so much more than him, Harls,” Peter’s eyes and demeanor softened as she looked away, “I wish you could see that. You have me too, you know? I’m always here for you.” There was a small pause.

“It’s been too long. This is all I know.”

“Wrong,” he said, “it was all you knew. I’m here and I’m telling you, because I care and I love you, that this is not healthy. I know you’re scared and you feel it’s been too long, but it’s not too late.” Harley sighed.

“I don’t know, Pete.”

“Yes you do, Harley. He’s using you and you’re letting him! This is abusive and it’ll kill you sooner than later.” Tears started spilling down Harley’s face, touching pale skin and likely stinging the small cuts on her face.

Suddenly, she rushed forwards and embraced Peter, who instantly embraced her back, minding her injuries. They stood like that for a while, Harley sobbing into Peter’s neck and him softly shushing her. Finally, after her hiccups died down, she whispered,

“He nearly killed me today.” Peter pulled back, his doe eyes looking into Harley’s blue ones. “There was a drug deal gone wrong and he wanted to kill a couple of the kids selling. They didn’t know any of the shit they were getting into. They were just kids!” Harley sobbed, her story momentarily paused. Peter was disgusted and mildly felt like he would throw up. “So I said no! And then he killed them right in front of me and then attacked me! My Mista J would never do that to me! He said he wouldn’t but he did! He did it, Pete!”

She cried harder and Peter, while his rage and need for justice burned hotter than before, he was a friend first and foremost. He shushed her and held her longer.

“I know it hurts. But you’re gonna break up with him, okay? You’re gonna put this behind you and you can move on. I’ll help you.” Harley said nothing for a few minutes. Then, she pulled herself out of his arms, rubbing at her swollen eyes and nodding.

“Okay,” she whispered, “can you stay with me tonight?” Peter melted at the request.

“Of course Harls. I’ll stay as long as you need. Just let me go get my stuff okay? I don’t want it to get stolen. Again.” Harley laughed. It was a small laugh but it was there. It was the most beautiful sound that he had heard all day.

-----

Peter entered the shelter and headed for his cot straight away. He had to get his stuff quickly and head back to Harley. She needed him more than ever. He stuffed all his belongings into his backpack, making sure nothing was missing. He didn’t want to have to come back to get something that would likely be stolen. Suddenly, his Spidey Sense rang out, alerting him of danger from behind.

Peter slowly straightened and turned around. He came face to face with a neck connected to a head which connected to a face he did not want to see at the moment.

“You!” He hissed out, irritated. Dick Grayson stood in his immaculateness, standing out in the whole room with his expensive suit and accessories and good looks. Dick smiled his megawatt smile, trying to make it less obvious that he was caging the cute boy in. Peter wasn't fooled for a second.

“Hey gorgeous,” he greeted with a flirtatious tone, “miss me?”

Previous: Part 2

Next: Part 4

#Peter Parker #Mafia Batfam #Mob Boss Bruce Wayne #Mob Boss Dick Grayson #Mob Boss Jason Todd #Mob Boss Tim Drake #Mob Boss Damian Wayne #Peter Parker is Spider Man #Reverse Harem #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne

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pixelatedlenses · 7 years

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So it’s the 20th in Japan, but the 19th in America, and that means that this still counts. I hope I can accurately convey my feelings. Please understand the meaning of this, and honestly, if you have any statements of the “But Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” or “But Japan was a colonialist country” variety, don’t comment at all. Japanese-Americans and their Diaspora are significantly different from Japan and the actions of the former Imperial Army. Japanese-Americans often fought against Japan and the former Imperial Army and definitely fought against the Axis Powers. Do not discredit that history by saying, “But all Japanese!” anywhere on my blog. Today, and this blog, are not the place to have that very important conversation concerning Japanese imperialism in China, Korea, and Southeast Asian, which yes, is very important. As a historian who focused on that very thing for their thesis, I will tell you it is necessary to engage in that conversation. There’s a lot to unpack and discuss, especially considering recent dialogue between both countries and rising tensions that stem from the 1906-1910 forced colonization of the Korean peninsula. That is something that we must discuss.

But not today, and not in this moment of remembrance.

Today is about Japanese-Americans and their respective diaspora specifically, about interment, and remembering why we cannot let another people become a scapegoat and captive in America again.

If you didn’t come here with that intent, please accept this blessing in the form it comes. Also, forgive me: this is a five page blessing that goes into a lot of discussion. The blessing’s still there, it’s just tucked between a bit of a reflection.

Some articles to read:

From the LA Times, an article about survivor and member of the 42nd Regimental Combat Team Tokuji Yoshihashi, age 94.

From CNN, an article by George Takei talking about Japanese-American interment from a personal point of view. I recommend also reading up on his play Allegiance which focuses on Japanese-interment.

From The Japan times, a general article discussing current measures to establish designated, government recognized days, and additional measures, for Day of Remembrance.

Note: These are only a few resources, but I encourage you to seek information and open dialogue to learn. We remember because we don’t want to forget horrible grievances, and learning allows us to keep from treading that ground again. Find your local Japan-America society, go to universities or Japanese Community centers, and respectfully allow yourself to be taught about this part of American history so that you can become an ally and understand a bigger picture.

Today is Day of Remembrance in memory of the thousands –tens of thousands, to the sad tune of 120,000 American citizens– . It’s the 75th anniversary, and many who lived in the camps still are alive, living testaments to racism in America that is currently seeing an ugly revival. It comes in the form of White Nationalists calling for persons of Muslim faith to be put away in camps, in anti-Semitism, in the school-to-prison pipeline that steals away innocence. It comes in racism blocking change.

As I made my commute from Minami Fukushima to the station this morning, I listened to the final chapter of Book 1 of Harry Potter on Harry Potter and the Sacred Text. It’s become something I really enjoy lately –shoutout to @hpsacredtext for such a quality product, all the way from Fukushima City, Japan– and have felt has revived my spirituality through the use of a pop culture medium being used to reflect on ourselves through religious practices.

The focus of the podcast was love, in many different forms.

I had to pause it before they got to the type of reflective practice they were going to use, and before they give a blessing to a character: both are parts of the show I rather like, and almost look forward to each listen. However, in the spirit of HP and the Sacred Text, I want to offer a blessing, in my own, small way, of love to Japanese-Americans on this day.

It is, of course, a blessing of love.

I want to start with the fact that it is, in its own right, interesting that this day comes during Black History Month. I don’t think I ever noticed this growing up because honestly, my education about Japanese persons was limited to social media and what I understood from poorly written textbooks: it wasn’t until college that I got a Big Picture education. Black persons have often been imagined to be composed of grief: a grief of a lost heritage, of a lost land, of being taken, used, called chattel, then ignorant, then colored, and now thugs, of being continuously beaten down by society so that we will settle into “our place” and one day, ascend to become good persons, productive members of society, but always remember that we’re still Black, and therefore less. It’s a quite privileged image to see a people as constantly overcoming and therefore strong: it kind of excludes the fact that many Black persons feel incredibly deep pain from that forced rhetoric.

In the words of many Black persons greater than I that have come before me, that’s some mess if I’ve ever heard it.

But above all else –above a fetishized image of the sexualize image of Black persons, above self-serving guilt about our pasts, above a month where we’re barely the spotlight– we are made of love, and that is a fact I’ll take to my grave. It is writ into the fine lines and creases on a grandmother’s face, put into her cooking and the warm hugs she offers. It is in the smiles of the multitudes of black women who are living their lives, lights up in the eyes of black men facing adversity. It is in our children who are the future, in a black child’s victory for the entire community, in a president that made it possible to have a 2nd, 3rd, 20th, 50th Black President, in a light that shines through a national community of brown and black bodies, eyes looking ahead towards an even brighter future.

I feel that the same light, the same pervasive brightness and power, is in Japanese-Americans also, because it wasn’t so long ago that we were cut from the same cloth: dangers to society, hated, and forced into captivity, made to be scapegoats for a war that wasn’t there, and forced to atone when they were American citizens. For a long time, persons of Asian Descent –Chinese persons in the 1800s, Japanese persons in early part of the 1900s, then Korean and Vietnamese persons in the latter part of the century, and now, persons in the Middle Eastern regions – have been the target of hate. This has always been alongside Black hatred: I’d dare say that the hatred of Asian-descending persons and African-descending persons almost always occurs alongside one another.

This has not changed, of course, since 1942. As my grandmother would say, the shackle’s just aren’t visible anymore, but just because you can’t see something don’t mean it doesn’t exist.

75 years may seem long, but my grandmother is 94: she saw this, and many other acts of hatred, exacted upon Japanese-Americans. She saw the One Drop Rule be extended to Japanese persons: one drop of Japanese blood, and you were suddenly the enemy. One Drop, and you needed to be contained.

(I should add that I came to realize, shortly before I left for Japan, that my grandmother is first generation also: first generation born free. Perhaps that why this day of remembering persons of captivity is so important: I’m only the third generation, and just recently –only since really, the late 1980s, but more the 1990s – got to experience what freedom with all rights attached feels like, and it’s still an ongoing struggle to keep those rights. My hope is many generations will continue to experience rights and that one day, they will be a part of their being and no blood will be shed to protect them. I will most definitely fight for that future knowing I won’t see it: it’s worth it to me.)

Sadly, she and I and many people around the world are both seeing the return of that sickening thought as it’s exacted upon persons of Muslin faith, primarily from the Middle Eastern regions. Once more, the One Drop rule is coming into play. One Drop, and you’re suddenly a terror that needs to be contained. One Drop, and you lose the right to exist as a free person, as an American. You’re labeled a threat. One Drop is enough to damn you to being exclusively bad: it’s a hideous truth that has made a return, notable especially during last year’s political race, and with the ascension of a transparent, White racist businessman bent on excluding as many “bad people” as he can.

(I even live near a former site where German-American persons were held: two places actually, one of which is a beautiful lake, the other of which held Japanese-Americans exclusively. You’d never guess that thousands of Japanese-Americans waited there, assumedly wondering why they were there and where they’d go. Texas, being a state of big empty places, is of course, riddled with former camps and forts that hold the memories of Japanese-Americans alongside German-Americans. Regretfully, little to nothing is taught in Texas schools, though with its vicious desire to repress anything that’s not family friendly, it should come as no surprise that Texas Education administrators want little to do with its continuously ugly history.)

So I want to give you a blessing.

I give a blessing to all the Japanese-Americans that will get asked, “But yeah, how much Japanese are you?” today, to the people that will get asked to read Chinese fortunes, write their friends name in kanji, read a stranger’s tattoo, or otherwise be pushed into a racist box. I give a blessing to people who are white-passing and are told it’s “cool” you’re Japanese, to Japanese-Americans who are called Chinese, to Japanese-Americans who have ever been told their lunch smelled weird, have been policed by others about how much of their own culture is theirs, have been told that they have no right to it because they’re not Japanese enough. I give a blessing to Japanese-Americans with parents from Japan who have heard teasing remarks, to Japanese-Americans who feel distance for being American and Japanese. I can’t imagine that struggle: I’ve never had to have it. But I’d imagine that it aches sometimes.

I give a blessing to older Japanese-Americans that may still struggle to love America when it betrayed the trust of its citizens. I give a blessing to all Japanese persons who lived in those camps and still say the pledge, who sing the anthem and feel pride for their country, who want to make America a place for all. I give a blessing to first generation, second generation, ongoing generations of Japanese descending persons who struggle to be mixed in a world that wants things Black and White. I give a blessing to all who are a part of the Japanese Diaspora and are proud, who need representation and work to create it, who can’t create and wish for it.

Most of all, I offer a blessing of protection in these dark times when a percentage of America wants a return to internment, wants to see groups of people labeled and placed away, partitioned off from society. I offer all Japanese persons a blessing that they never see that day again, whether for Japanese persons or for Jewish persons: for Black persons, persons of the Muslim faith, or anybody who is marginalized, brown, black, and different. I pray that your children, your families, your friends keep strong hearts and know that we will not let that happen. I do not want another Executive Order to take us back to fear mongering and scares.

We cannot let that happen again.

I give a blessing from the bottom of my heart that you’ll find what you need and feel that American is Your America through and through. I hope that you will let love in its many forms guide you, and let that keep you and let your head lay peaceful at night.

Love is what will get us through these dark times, when racism, White Nationalists, White Terrorism, and fear by all is so prevalent. Love from white allies, from Persons of Color, and for a future where Our America is a colorful tapestry of heritage, languages, culture, and representation will help to enact the change to break down racism and open up dialogue.

God be with you, and also with you. Lift your hands up and rejoice because we will all rise together. This is my blessing to you, Japanese-Americans. I see you, I hear you, and I proudly stand with you. Go forth in glory, for you’re Our America. You make up My America, a Land for All. Hate will not win when we band together. Hate cannot prevail in the face of rightful justice. Hate cannot prevail when peoples –formerly oppressed– do not let hate rise up.

Hate will not be the victor.

That is my blessing as we go forth.

Amen.

#day of rememberance #japanese-american interment #blessings #thoughts #japanese-american issues

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