#not that Scorch wanted ANYTHING to do with Ragged after he became a warrior

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

Had to fix something with the ending allegiances because I forgot Scorchwind is Raggedstar's brother. Oops.

More notes in tags

[twilights-800-cats]

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Chapter 27

Tinystar opened his eyes, more exhausted than when he’d gone to sleep. He’d dragged himself into his nest far after moonhigh, when the sky was just starting to lighten. Sandstorm hadn’t stirred as he’d laid himself down, drained to his core, and shut his eyes. His dreams were fleeting and hard to catch, like a butterfly escaping a kit’s claws – but his anger… it boiled like greenleaf flame.

Mouth dry, Tinystar forced himself to wake. Sandstorm had left the nest, her scent lingering still. The bulk of the Clan didn’t know that he’d gone out last night. He had to project strength.

It’s all for revenge. He thought as he stretched, trying to force the sleepiness from his body. The more he thought about the meeting with Scorch last night, the more frantic energy filled him. His claws clutched his nest, some part of him pretending that the bedding was Scorch’s pelt. He’s going to drive us all out because of petty revenge!

Tinystar tried to force his fur to lie flat. It used to be Bluestar’s actions that caused his temper to flare – it didn’t help that her mentorship had nutured that part of him – but now it was Scorch. His own half-brother! A cat he’d looked up to as a kit, who’d tell him stories and come and visit Tinystar more than his own littermates!

He took a deep breath. It does no good to get worked up now, he thought. What’s happening is happening – there’s no changing it. If StarClan has pitted us against one another then I will do everything in my power to stop him.

Tinystar padded out of his den. Leaf-bare sunlight shone weakly down on the clearing, the cats in motion like flitting shadows in the gray dawn. No cat was panicking – it seemed as if no one knew he’d gone. Sandstorm was leading the kits off, all three bouncing around her and Stormpaw as they pushed through the gorse tunnel. Tawnypelt and Featherpaw followed.

Tinystar spotted Whitestorm with Mistypaw and Ashpaw near the camp walls. The two apprentices were patching the wall, weaving sticks in with paws and jaws to reinforce the camp’s defenses. Tinystar padded over to Whitestorm’s side, keeping an eye on the two. Ashpaw had a history of anger at Stonepaw – was he like that with Mistypaw?

“Everything is fine,” Whitestorm mewed under his breath, as if he could hear Tinystar’s thoughts. “They’re both focused on their task – I thought that would be best.”

“Thanks,” Tinystar agreed. Mistypaw was still distraught over the loss of her brother – she needed to keep her paws busy. He wasn’t sure if it would help Ashpaw, though. There might never be any way to make him see his denmates differently.

Tinystar blinked, putting his attention to the barrier itself. He imagined BloodClan rogues streaking through the forest and crashing into it with full force. He saw the barrier bending and swaying and breaking as a tide of BloodClan cats swarmed into the clearing. For a moment the quiet sounds of morning were replaced with the screaming of cats dying. Tinystar swallowed and shook away the vision.

And yet the gorse was waving for real.

Tinystar bristled, opening his jaws to call out warning – but only two shapes emerged. Two black-and-white shapes. Tinystar shut his jaws. It was Ravenpaw and Barley!

“Well, this is a surprise,” Whitestorm admitted.

Tinystar’s tail twitched. “Greetings, Ravenpaw. Barley.”

Barley, who lived in the barn at the edge of the territories, looked uncomfortable being around so many cats. Tinystar guessed that the loner had never been in the heart of the Clan’s territories before – he seemed alright with being just at the fringes. Ravenpaw, however, looked calm and comfortable, his eyes bright as he looked at Tinystar.

“We heard about what’s going on from a WindClan patrol,” Ravenpaw reported. “We set out as soon as we could – we want to help.”

Whitestorm frowned. “Admirable,” he admitted, “but is it really your place?”

Ravenpaw narrowed his eyes. “ThunderClan was my home. I might be a loner now, but part of me will always be a warrior.”

“I understand that,” Tinystar meowed. He looked to Barley. “But you? You have no reason to fight.”

Barley shuffled on his paws. Ravenpaw laid his tail on his friend’s back. “It’s all right,” the young loner mewed reassuringly. “Barley has some information for you, Tinystar. He thinks it might help.”

Tinystar glanced at Whitestorm, who shrugged and turned his attention back to the apprentices at the barrier. Tinystar waved his tail for the loners to follow and led the way to a shady spot across the camp. The ferns that screened the medicine cat’s den kept them from prying eyes, too.

Barley tucked his paws beneath him as he settled down. Ravenpaw sat on his haunches, his tail wrapped around his friend’s bulk. Tinystar stifled a yawn and sat, curling his tail around his paws, leaning in to listen. He had to admit that curiosity was pricking his pelt – there was very little that any cat in the forest knew about their long-time loner neighbor.

“A-Alright…” Barley took a deep breath. “Here goes.”

“I’m with you,” Ravenpaw assured.

Barley shot him a grateful glance, tinged with affection. Tinystar wondered briefly if the two toms were more than just barnmates.

“I was once part of BloodClan,” Barley announced.

Tinystar’s ears pricked in surprise. The soft-pelted loner looked nothing like the ragged, skinny, muscular creatures that made up BloodClan.

“It’s true,” Barley mewed, gauging Tinystar’s reaction. “I remember growing up in an alley… BloodClan territory took up half the Twolegplace, it seemed. It was just me and my mother – she taught me and my littermates how to hunt and fight. I don’t know where our father was. We had to fight for and save nearly every scrap we could find.”

Barley swallowed. “The Clans out here… you guys have queens and systems made to take care of kits. Everyone works together for their survivial – but there’s nothing like that in BloodClan. It’s every cat for themselves. Mothers teach their kits how to hunt and fight but once you’re old enough you’re on your own.”

Ravenpaw murmured something comforting to Barley, to settle the tremor in his voice. Barley rumbled back.

“It gets brutal and violent.” Barley’s eyes grew haunted and dark with memories. “BloodClan adults don’t usually challenge queens with kits but… when you come to a certain age it doesn’t matter if you still rest at your mother’s belly – you have claws and you have to use them. Cats take what they want – food, grimy puddles, other cats – it doesn’t ever end. That’s why I left.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tinystar mewed gently. “But there must be some sort of order – otherwise why have a leader at all?”

“There is order – if you can call it that,” Barley went on. “Whatever BloodClan was started for, I don’t think that’s what it is now. But there’s a leader. There’s an inner circle of cats who watch over parts of the territory and the groups that wander in it. Disputes are settled… in their own way. In the end, though, it’s still survival of the fittest. You could hunt in a party of cats you’d known since you left your mother but if you can’t contribute you’re gone.”

“Do you know how Scorch became leader?” The mention of his half-brother’s name kindled the anger in Tinystar again.

“I don’t know,” Barley admitted. “When I was part of BloodClan there was a cat named Scourge in charge. Scorch must have killed him for the position – that would be the only way all of BloodClan would follow him.”

Tinystar stiffened. His brother… a murderer? You’ve seen just how dangerous he is, a small voice whispered. He’s always been capable. You’ve just been naïve.

“Why would any cat want to be part of that?” Tinystar mewed hoarsely, trying to punch down the anger growing in him. He tried to imagine how BloodClan worked – fighting and starving constantly for every scrap. No security when you grew too old or too hurt to fight. No thanks for your work.

“When you’re in Twolegplace you’re either a kittypet, loner, or a BloodClan cat,” Barley admitted. “Loners don’t last long in BloodClan territory. At least kittypets can hide in their nests for the most part. But you’re either with BloodClan or against them. Absolute or nothing at all.”

Tinystar frowned. BloodClan sounded like an awful deal – but starvation and looming death made cats do desperate things. “There must be some weakness,” he guessed. “BloodClan outnumbers both WindClan and ThunderClan together. Anything will be helpful.”

“They’re fierce fighters and they rarely leave opponents alive,” Barley answered, sympathy in his mew. “And they follow Scorch out of fear but that doesn’t mean that most of them aren’t nurturing darkness in their own hearts. But… they do have a weakness.”

Tinystar leaned in close.

“They don’t believe in StarClan,” Barley stated.

Tinystar frowned. “How is that…?”

“A Clan without a code can exist, yeah – but is it really a Clan without StarClan?” Barley went on. “A Clan without a StarClan is missing something fundamental – faith. BloodClan runs on bloodlust and fearmongering – there’s no faith in anything more than that.”

Tinystar swallowed. “You’re right,” he breathed. “Without StarClan… without our ancestors… we wouldn’t have any of their boons. No medicine cats to heal us, no omens to warn us of danger…”

“No nine lives,” Ravenpaw finished meaningfully.

“No nine lives,” Tinystar repeated.

Scorch doesn’t have nine lives!

He swallowed. Somehow the thought had never occurred to him – a Clan that didn’t believe in StarClan? It seemed an impossible concept. Suddenly it felt like the task was somewhat easier – BloodClan was ruled through fear of Scorch. Eliminate Scorch and BloodClan would disperse. Yet that meant… eliminating Scorch.

My brother will have to die to save the Clans… Tinystar shuddered. There was still a part of him that dreaded the thought. Oh StarClan!

He swallowed again. “T-Thank you, Barley,” he rasped. “This is very helpful.”

“I hope so,” Barley purred.

Ravenpaw waved his tail. “Barley and I will be there, Tinystar. We’ll fight with you at Fourtrees.”

Tinystar frowned. “This is not your battle.”

“It is,” Barley mewed firmly, getting to his paws. The loner’s eyes were hard, and Tinystar wondered if he’d been taken far back in his memories, to his time with BloodClan. “If BloodClan takes over the forest it won’t take them long to find the barn. They’ll ravage it like they will the entire forest – and we won’t be able to escape. We might live on the outskirts but what happens in the forest affects us, too.”

“I’d shed blood for the Clans many times over,” Ravenpaw agreed. “Especially for ThunderClan.”

Gratitude swamped the fear and apprehension and anger welling within Tinystar now. He touched his nose to each of the loner’s foreheads, stretching to reach Barley’s round head.

“Thank you,” he forced himself to purr. “Thank you both.”

———————————————————-

Barley and Ravenpaw’s visit made Tinysar restless. After their departure – they stated they would stay with WindClan until the battle, to help them recover and prepare – Tinystar set off into the woods. He caught himself a thin mouse and ate it where it died, knowing his Clan was as full-fed as it could be in these lean times. Then he carried on to the training hollow.

The first batch of warriors out for training would be doubtless on to other tasks now, but the sandy hollow wouldn’t be empty until the battle with BloodClan. Even in the night hours there would be training going on, thanks to Graystripe and Oakheart’s schedule.

Tinystar picked his way up the ravine, following the trail to the sandy hollow. A flash of fur caught his eye – a patrol was heading his way. Tinystar raised his tail to greet Frostfur and Longtail as they mewed their own greetings and stopped before him.

“We’re glad we caught you,” Frostfur mewed. “We were patrolling Sunningrocks and we caught scent of ShadowClan and RiverClan across the river.”

“Still?”

Longtail nodded, his pale eyes flashing thoughtfully. “Seems like ShadowClan is hiding there. Wonder if BloodClan has taken the marshes? Maybe they’re trying to hang on to LionClan.”

“Foolish, if you ask me,” huffed Frostfur. “There just isn’t enough room for two Clans in one spot!”

Tinystar waved his tail. “Go get some fresh-kill,” he ordered. “Be ready for training.”

Longtail and Frostfur dipped their heads and headed for the ravine. Tinystar watched them disappear into the spindly, dry undergrowth. He knew the patrol to the Thunderpath would confirm what Tinystar and Cloudtail had discovered the night before – that BloodClan was in ShadowClan’s proper territory.

So LionClan hasn’t properly split? He thought, setting his paws back on the trail to the sandy hollow. Is Leopardstar really trying to hold them all together? How long can that last?

Reaching the sandy hollow, Tinystar settled himself out on the fringes of ThunderClan’s training area to let the warriors and apprentices have their proper space. Graystripe had Fernpaw and Snowpaw in one corner, while Sandstorm trained Willowpelt’s kittens in another. Cinderpelt was going over ThunderClan-style moves with Featherpaw, Stormpaw, and Tawnypelt. Off to another side, Dustpelt was sparring with Brightheart and Swiftfoot while Cloudtail watched.

Tinystar looked proudly at his Clanmates, all training their hardest. The sandy hollow was more full than he’d ever seen it. He flicked his tail to Graystripe, who put Fernpaw and Snowpaw into a little bout before plodding over to greet Tinystar.

“How are things?” Tinystar asked.

“Well!” Graystripe mewed proudly. “BloodClan is going to tremble in their fur when they see us.”

Tinystar purred. “I have to agree,” he admitted, turning his eyes over the training cats. “Everyone is fighting like a warrior – even the kits.”

As he said so, Sorrelkit and her siblings flew on Sandstorm, burying her in their pelts. Sandstorm’s tail lashed from beneath the kits’ onslaught and Tinystar had to hold back a purr of amusement at the sight. Sandstorm would never let him keep his pelt if he teased her about this – but then again, this was nothing to tease about.

“Excuse me,” Graystripe mewed. “I’ve got to talk to Fernpaw about her claw work.”

Tinystar nodded, letting the gray warrior go. Graystripe walked with a spring in his step he seemed to be lacking, and there was a happy twinkle in his eye. Was that because of being reunited with Silverstream? Tinystar pushed it away – he didn’t want to think about what might happen to his old friend if Silverstream went back to RiverClan at the end of it all.

Sandstorm pulled herself out of the kitten pile, sporting a decent scratch on her spine. She raised her tail to end the fighting.

“No claws, Rainkit!” she ordered.

“Sorry,” the gray tom mewed.

“Why not have claws?” Sorrelkit piped up. “BloodClan isn’t gonna keep their claws sheathed!”

Sandstorm fluffed up her neck fur. “No proper Clan cat trains with claws unsheathed!”

“Dappletail says ShadowClan does,” mewed Sootkit.

“We’re not ShadowClan!” Sandstorm stated firmly. “We’re ThunderClan, and claws are sheathed! When you three are apprentices I’ll pity your mentors!”

“But we want you to be our mentor!” Rainkit squealed.

“Yeah!” Sootkit clamored.

Sorrelkit stood up on her hind paws, swiping at their air with practiced strikes. “You can train all three of us, can’t you?”

Tinystar purred, his whiskers twitching in amusement.

Sandstorm looked up, her tail fluffing as she caught Tinystar’s eye. “Hold a moment, kits,” she meowed to the three bundles. “Tinystar is here.”

“Oh, wow!” Sootkit gasped.

Suddenly Tinystar was surrounded by the kits, all three bouncing up and down around him. Their fur was dusted with sand and their pelts were rumpled but none of them seemed the least bit tired by their training. Sandstorm touched her nose to Tinystar’s in greeting.

Tinystar leaned over his mate and ran his tongue along her scratch. Not deep, but the kits had managed to penetrate her leaf-bare thick fur. Sandstorm purred at the gesture.

“Tinystar! Tinystar!” called Rainkit. “Sandstorm can be our mentor, right?”

“All of us?” Sorrelkit added.

Tinystar looked down at the kits, his whiskers twitching. “She can only mentor one of you,” he said gently. “That way she can put all her energy into her apprentice properly.”

“Well, I want it to be me!” Sorrelkit decided, her tail standing straight up.

“What about me?” Rainkit huffed.

Sootkit fluffed his pelt. “Well, whatever – I want to be Tawnypelt’s apprentice.”

“We can’t be her apprentice!” Rainkit clamored. “She’s our sister!”

“So?” Sootkit’s little tail lashed. “She’s just as good a warrior as Sandstorm!”

Sorrelkit got down on her haunches. “Well, can Tawnypelt do this?” She pounced on her brother, and the two disappeared in a tangle of gray-and-tortoiseshell fur.

Rainkit watched, sighing. “Of course she could,” he muttered. “A pounce? Every cat can pounce…”

“They’re a pawful,” Tinystar decided, watching the tussle.

“You have no idea,” Sandstorm agreed, leaning against him a moment. “But their energy is admirable.”

Tinystar looked up at his mate. He could see the wistfulness in her eyes as she watched the kits practice their battle moves. He rubbed his chin against her shoulder. “If you want one of them as your apprentice, just ask.”

Sandstorm stiffened. “I… I suppose. I’d like Sorrelkit, I think. If things work out.”

Tinystar frowned. Was his mate still worried for Stonepaw? Did she hold out hope her apprentice would return?

But the look Sandstorm gave him was more intense than that. Sandstorm wasn’t worried about one lost apprentice – she was worried about the Clans as a whole. If BloodClan drove them out, the warrior code and the lives they built wouldn’t matter anymore. Mentor and apprentice would disappear, along with everything else.

“We’ll win,” he assured her quietly. “We have to.”

He let Sandstorm go and resume her training with the kits. The three followed after her eagerly, their tails up. They’d be ready for a good long sleep when they went back to the nursery – and when their apprenticeships began Tinystar could see them being some of the best warriors ThunderClan ever had.

Tinystar turned his attention to Swiftfoot and Brightheart. The two crippled warriors were facing Dustpelt – a formidable opponent in his own right. Dustpelt lunged across the sand, closing the distance between himself and Brightheart – but any hopes of tackling the “easier” of the two were dashed as Brightheart leaped back and Swiftfoot took her place.

Dustpelt crashed into Swiftfoot, who used the momentum to wrap his paws around Dustpelt’s neck. With a heave, Swiftfoot shoved Dustpelt’s face into the dust.

“Get off you lump!” Dustpelt hissed. “My mouth is full of sand!”

“Not until you surrender!” Brightheart crowed, her tail twitching.

Dustpelt wriggled more and then sagged. “Fine – fine! I surrender!”

Swiftfoot purred as he released Dustpelt from his grip. Dustpelt got back to his paws, looking dizzy. He shook his head to clear it and then the rest of himself to loosen the sand in his pelt. He looked between the two crippled warriors. “Didn’t see that coming, honestly,” he admitted. “Think you could teach me that?”

“We’ll teach you all,” Brightheart promised. Beside her, Swiftfoot scoffed, rolling his eyes. “There’s no reason we can’t all fight for our Clan.”

Tinystar made his way to Cloudtail’s side. “They’re doing so well,” he praised. “Swiftfoot especially.”

“I don’t know where he comes up with these moves,” Cloudtail admitted, her eyes flashing with admiration. “But they’re always astounding – and Brightheart is clever herself, too!”

Before them the three warriors got back into position for another bout. It wasn’t long before Dustpelt was on his belly again, begging for mercy – this time because of Brightheart’s snakelike movements. Cloudtail puffed out her chest.

Tinystar felt pride, too. All of his Clanmates were so skilled! Though his muscles itched to join in on the training – it felt like moons since he’d used his claws for anything but hunting – he turned to Cloudtail again.

“We should go and see Fiona,” he meowed.

Cloudtail stiffened. Tinystar knew that the previous night had taken a great toll on her emotionally. He was fully prepared for her to refuse – but she was slowly nodding in agreement. “We can’t keep her in the dark,” she murmured. “She needs to know what my father… what Scorch has become.”

Tinystar licked her between the ears. Cloudtail said a quick good-bye to her mates, promising to return swiftly. Then the two were off, their paws on the trail to Twolegplace.

———————————————————-

They traveled in silence through Tallpines and into Twolegplace, reaching Fiona’s nest just after sunhigh. There were plenty of kittypets out and about, lying on their bellies to relish the sunlight before it got too cold to enjoy it. They paid no mind to the two forest cats slinking along the bottoms of their fences.

“We shouldn’t tell her about last night,” Tinystar decided as they reached Fiona’s fence. Her scent clouded the air on the other side. “The rest of it is going to be hard enough as it is.”

“Yeah,” Cloudtail agreed. She gave a powerful leap and balanced on the top of the fence a moment before disappearing over the edge.

Tinystar followed, scrabbling a little to get over. His shorter height always made jumping a bit of a chore. He landed on all four paws in Fiona’s garden in time to see the pure white she-cat greeting her daughter with a purr, the bell on her collar tinkling gently.

“Cloudtail, it feels like seasons since we’ve seen each other!” Fiona fretted. “Don’t be a stranger!”

“Mother…” Cloudtail sighed, wincing as Fiona rasped her tongue along her thick pelt.

Fiona’s ears perked up as Tinystar came into view. “Tinyclaw! There you are – you look so thin! Are you eating properly? The cold must have driven off so much prey…”

Tinystar’s ear flicked at hearing his old name. He coughed awkwardly.

“Mother – he’s Tinystar now. He’s Clan leader!” Cloudtail pointed out.

Fiona’s ear flicked. “Tinystar…?” She tested the name on her tongue, looking slightly cross. “You Clan cats go through names quicker than a kitten shreds a toy, I swear!”

The pretty white she-cat shook her head. Then, she sighed, her big blue eyes sympathetic. “That must mean that Tigerstar has passed? I’m so sorry, Tinystar.”

Tinystar nodded. “He did, yes,” he reported. “Things have been so busy, I’m sorry we haven’t been able to come to give you proper updates.”

Fiona flicked her tail. “Well it’s no wonder – you’re leader now! Doubtless you’ve got many responsibilities! You won’t always be able to make time to visit.” Though the thought clearly made her sad, she put on a brave face. Tinystar felt a prickle of admiration for the kittypet queen, who almost always refuted Clan perceptions of how a kittypet ought to behave.

“I haven’t heard those dogs in a while, either,” Fiona breathed. “They must have moved on.”

In a way, Tinystar thought. He didn’t have time to go through the entire story, so he simply nodded.

“Well then – you’re leader now and everything seems to be all right in the forest, so why do you both look like someone’s trying to chew your hind legs?” Fiona demanded. She looked between her kit and her friend. “What’s happening out there?”

Tinystar swallowed. Cloudtail’s jaws seemed firmly shut, unwilling to tell her mother what was happening. So it fell to Tinystar to tell her everything he was willing to – about Rusty and Scorch, about BloodClan, and about the attack in two dawns’ time.

Fiona let out a wail.

“I knew it!” she cried. “I knew something was going on with him and those nasty cats!” She slumped against Cloudtail. “How could he do this? I kept warning him they were bad news and now…”

“I don’t know.” Tinystar moved to comfort her, resting his tail against her flank. “I don’t think Scorch was ever the cat we thought we knew, Fiona.” Cloudtail murmured her agreement, her eyes pools of sorrow.

“I loved him, Tinystar,” Fiona whimpered. “I loved him so much…”

“I know.”

Fiona let herself shake for a moment longer before she straightened up. She ran a trembling paw along her whiskers to straighten them, as if that would calm her. She looked between Cloudtail and Tinystar.

“Please,” she mewed quietly, “be careful, the both of you. That BloodClan is ruthless and evil and they never stop until they have what they want.”

“We’ll win,” Cloudtail meowed confidently. She butted her head against her mother’s shoulder. “We always do!”

Fiona didn’t look totally reassured – she stared right into Tinystar’s eyes, and the small black tom realized he knew what the kittypet was thinking.

We always seem to make it out… but not without losing cats along the way.

[sleeplessinsiswati]

Create Heaven Here—My Story

For the record, this probably should have been the first “official” post for this blog. My bad, I’m a learn-as-you-go type so I’ve been messing around and BOOM well, here we are.

*clears throat* ahem...

When I was young I wanted to be a writer. I always dreamed of being a writer; of my words mattering to someone. The unique ability of being able to eloquently articulate thoughts and touch someone else deeply was nothing short of a poetic wonderland in my childhood imagination. Now I am older, and I realise that words, these words are all that I have to give. I once believed that this was not enough; that the sum of who I am had to add up to more than what I can say about this life, or what I have seen of it. I now understand that it does not have to be more than this so much as it has to be true, no matter if the impact of those words is great or small. I am writing this because I wanted my first post in country to be about me; here I will paint an in-depth portrait of who I am and why I am here.

________________________________

It is a common theme in stories originating from the continent of Africa that history is intertwined with mythology, and so too the story of my life is told. Before I was born, my father wanted to name me Shaka Zulu in honour of the infamous, Southern-African warrior. My mother protested, worried that I would endure ridicule and shame because of a lack of understanding from other children or teachers. And with that wisdom, I was instead named after her, Desmond—the son of Desiree. If only they had saw fit to ask the Creator to not give me the soul of a warrior since it was decided I would no longer be receiving the name. I was born with asthma. Mom would later tell me that it was because even before I was born the evil of this world wanted to steal my breath, to take my words.

In early childhood, I found it hard to have a voice for myself. As a matter of fact, for the first year and a half of my life my parents did not think that I could talk at all; my older brother, Gerald, would always speak for me. Whatever he liked, I liked; whatever he wanted, I wanted. It wasn’t until one fateful Sunday School class where there was an option of cheese or peanut butter and jelly crackers that I had spoken publicly at all. With whatever self-esteem I could muster up in my infantile body I stated very clearly, and to the surprise of all in attendance, that I wanted peanut butter and jelly crackers. That would be my first fight; my brother wanted me to have the cheese crackers. From then on my life would be a series of advocating for myself or on behalf of others, and willingly paying the price no matter the cost.

I got into a good number of fights as a child. I was more passionate than I was “boy”. I had a spirit of fire and wind; free, scorching, and bold. I went from unspeaking and timid to outspoken and determined. Dont ask me what I was determined to do, though. To this day, I do not know what I was so serious, so keen on grasping at prepubescence. I was raised in the church like most Southern Louisiana, Black boys. It was here that I was able to find comfort and a sense of pride. Along with the classroom, the sanctuary was a place where my words were accepted; it was a place where intelligence and passion could meet, and where adults were impressed and were quick to take promising young pupils under their wing. Many teachers spoke highly of my performance in the classroom, and so did ministers at my place of worship. Unfortunately for me, there was a great degree of protection that was in the church setting that was not remotely available in an inner-city elementary school with a magnet component.

I could never understand at the time, from the background which I came, why “Church Boy” was an insult. Honestly, it didn’t bother me so much as the implications that came with it. Implications like that I could not defend myself; that even if I could not, that I had parents who would quickly take up for me; that I was weak and afraid of a world that was unknown to me; that someone else had the right to take these things from me. These statements were made between curled lips and clenched teeth and clenched fists; from smacked lips and cold stares I learned that having two parents in one home and having an identity rooted in church life were things to be snickered at. With those snickers came threats, boys posturing themselves to be perceived as men; willing to play at absolute dominant power in the face of what seemed like a helpless Christian kid. And with that, I let those assholes eat my fists. Never one to back down from a fight, I got in more fights in and out of school between my elementary and high school years than I care to remember, in and out of school. I lost many of them, I won some. One thing I never did was back down. I would be felt, I would be heard, I would be respected.

This philosophy came to frustrate my parents who constantly reinforced a message of choosing battles. Though I felt an angst from the outside world, there was no difference in emotion concerning the place that I called home. My mom has always been a jewel in my mind; her beauty, poise, and radiance will never fade and will always be priceless. My dad, my protector; a strong tower and defender of his family, which for him was his pride and joy. En lieu of these praises I now sing, the truth is as a child I felt very much alone and afraid. My dad would often invalidate the words I would say as foolish or thoughtless, and it was a rare sighting for my mom to protect my emotions from his aggression in those moments. Mom was an artist in her day, and I would say very much so an existentialist. She taught her sons to feel, and to feel deeply the offerings of this life; what a gift this is, and it is one I will forever be grateful for. But, what a curse this was, when under the weight of the absolute terror that is an emotionally insensitive parent. As if the words and insults of a man you see as your protector and provider were not enough, the inexplicable silence of that other person who built you as this fragile human being made for a combination that never ceased to knock the wind out of me.

Even in sports, which I did not particularly excel in for some time, my brother and I were not seen by other players as much more than the coaches’ sons. With this came the same insults and curses that I experienced at school, but only this time in an environment of high passions and high volatility. Myself, being the more hotheaded between Gerald and I, always took the bait of these insults only to be publicly humiliated by my dad once word reached to him. It was inescapable, this fog of perpetual pain that occasioned seasonal rays of artistic expression and raging passion that served as my outlets. The one haven, the castle on the hill in this experience was the church. I was a child that was made vulnerable to everything, and therefore I felt everything. This eternity of feeling left me ragged and tired of many things, and as a result I became a very cold and methodical young man. I became what others would refer to as “mature” and “wise beyond my years” or “strong”; I never wanted to be any of these things. I never wanted to be strong, I just wanted to be safe.

Through sheer determination and willpower I did well both academically and athletically in high school. I graduated, and went on to undergraduate studies out of state. More than anything I wanted to leave behind Louisiana and it’s incessant ignorance and backwards logic; how wrong was I to think that it was a regional issue. I decided in college that I wanted to be a different person, a more visible leader and advocate on behalf of myself and other. I think it was this thought that guided me to make a vast majority of the decisions I would come to make, both good and bad. I would hold a few positions on campus and ran track my first two years of college. These points are not why this era in my life matters, though. It was here that my life would first fall apart, and largely because of my own doing. Somewhere between my university studies and my out-of-class experiences I no longer believed God had an active role in my life. I mean sure He was up there and guided me to the school in the first place, but looking back on my life I did not see a reason to believe that there was this ultimately powerful being who had been looking out on my behalf; again, the God I knew made me vulnerable, transparent to a world that sought to destroy my faith in it and in Him at every turn. If that was the God that had been watching me since birth I wanted nothing to do with Him, or, rather, I think we needed to spend some time apart.

And so, I lived my life and I lived it grandly. Unashamedly infatuated with luxury, opportunity, and prestige, I was well-known on campus; in some ways, I was notorious on campus. Eventually, that notoriety caused me to make some ridiculous college kid decisions, as most college kids do, that almost had very adult consequences. Regardless of what did not happen, one particular situation had consequences that resulted in a very loud, very public fall from grace; I was ashamed. That summer, on my annual return to Louisiana, I was broken and lost. I felt alone, embarrassed, and trapped, not much different from how I once felt as a child. It was in this season that I began reading Thich Nhat Hanh and meditating. I began shaving my head, a sign of consecration to a purpose I had long thought I lost or forgotten, and cut all meats out of my diet except for fish.

Yet embarrassed because of the terms on which I left the university, I told some of my peers and fraternity brothers that I more than likely would not be returning. The weight of the guilt and reliving the chaos of the preceding year seemed too much to bear. In the midst of these thoughts came the same soft, cool, all-consumingly overwhelming feeling that led me to the institution, initially. In that moment, to my soul came the urge to return and that if I were to not return I would be a coward. “What has kept you, will not sustain you”. Those words, words that came, in my opinion, from the universe directly to my spirit were the words that I rode all the way to Nashville on a 12am Greyhound bus.

In this final year of university, I discovered more about myself that I can explain; who I was, who I was not, who I wanted to be, and who I was willing to become. The magic of the moments in that year seemed to meet me in roaring waves of enlightenment and revelation; I was alive, fully alive for the first time. In this season I began to see the early formations of a personal philosophy that would become the cornerstone of a dream—a dream to create my own reality. It would be this dream that would propel me to achieve another lifelong dream of mine: becoming a Peace Corps volunteer.

Peace Corps was, and is still, an opportunity for me to connect with people world’s away; to learn their language, their ways of life, what life means to them, and what love means to them. For me, this was, and again still is, perfectly in alignment with who I wanted to become and had been a dream for me for quite some time. Well, after finishing my undergraduate studies, a two year completion of graduate studies back at home, and a marriage-to-my-best-friend later, I and my partner were granted the opportunity to become Peace Corps Volunteers in eSwatini (Swaziland). After months of training, going from Septemeber 27th to December 12th, we were able to be sworn in, officially, as volunteers of the United States Peace Corps. These past few months have been riddled with their own, unique challenges. Viewing life as an adventure helps me to make light of these experiences, and to examine them objectively, in the grand scheme of life.

The experiences I have had the blessed opportunity to be a part of and the future experiences I will have the chance to live and feel will be documented and scribed here for two main purposes: to tell a story that often times is not told; the story of the Black male minority, who has a rare opportunity to go places that many other Black people may never have the chance or the courage to. The second purpose, is to be transparent about the hard work and the beautiful struggle that is connecting, living, and loving other human beings. Despite the difficulties, despite language barriers, despite whatever obstacles, I believe that all people seek peace and connection, wholeness and reconciliation. It is this belief that has guided me, that has become my personal philosophy, and that continues to guide me.

To close, I refer to the Biblical passage of the story of the Tower of Babel; all of humanity came together with the grand cause of building a tower to reach the heights Heaven. Not only were they successful in their united endeavors, but so much so that the hosts of Heaven feared that humanity would ascend into the Heavens because, when they were united, there was nothing they could not accomplish. As a result, humanity was called to speak different languages in order to cause division and confusion amongst themselves. I am here, and walk this Earth, with the intention of rebuilding that tower; or rather, to bring about the revelation that Heaven was the ability to have peace and love, united in a cause for the benefit for all of humanity.

Once there was an endeavour to build a tower to reach unto Heaven. Why build up when what you truly seek is inside and around you? You do not have to wait until you die; you do not have to wait for an act of God. You are the act of God; your life is an act of God. Come on; let’s Create Heaven Here.