#our expressions of ourselves shouldn’t be approached with loathing

[byoldervine]

Worse than what?

What point of comparison can be made in good faith here? What point of comparison is constructive or helpful here? What point of comparison could be motivating or inspiring here?

I defy you; worse than what?

Idk who needs to hear this but just because your writing isn’t good yet doesn’t mean it’s bad either

[absentlyabbie]

a family and (mis)fortune fic

on ao3

moments growing up in the life of tommy merlyn, part-time wayne foster child. (two)

—————

January 1993

It had been years since Bruce had seen Rebecca.

The last time he’d seen her face to face had been her wedding reception, and even after years of marriage to Malcolm Merlyn and the birth of their son, Bruce’s first instinct was to think of her as Rebecca Carlisle. She had been more than a decade older than Bruce, but he had only fond memories of her, one of the few old family friends who remained in contact with him after his parents’ deaths. His father, she had told him once, had been the reason she decided to go into medicine.

And now Bruce was in her home, a stone in a sea of black mourners’ suits, searching the tastefully appointed great room’s decor for echoes of the woman whom he had called a friend.

Aside from the photos placed here and there of the small Merlyn family, Bruce found the room empty of her presence, dressed in the coolly impersonal style of a well-paid interior designer, catering to the tastes of someone far less warm and vivid than Rebecca Merlyn.

Someone Bruce would have been unable to pick out of a lineup approached to gladhand him, his name already far too familiar on their lips. Sensing an imminent overture about stocks and mergers, Bruce smiled politely and made slick, quick excuses, slipping away through the crowd of Starling’s richest and most fashionably sad. He picked up a glass of scotch from the tray of a passing waiter, more for something to be seen doing than any desire to drink.

He carried the crystal tumbler like a shield, navigating the gossiping, murmuring crowd less with the aim of getting anywhere particular than being a more difficult moving target. Since pulling into the graveled drive in front of the ostentatiously modern Merlyn Manor, he had begun to wonder if flying out to Starling had been a mistake. There was little here in the way of honoring or grieving Rebecca, most of the attendees seeming to see the occasion as an excuse to socialize with members of their preferred class and goggle over the spectacle of tragedy amidst wealth.

Bruce’s distracted, evasive path took him through an open door and he found himself in a sitting room only a little smaller than the great room. It was less densely populated, mostly by the constraints of the room’s dimensions. By the windows, a circle of black-clad men gathered, all with their own glasses of expensively terrible alcohol in hand.

As Bruce drifted closer, hoping to take camouflage among the flock, he discovered Malcolm Merlyn holding court before them all.

Bruce’s mood soured even further almost instantly, though he tried to stifle it with a healthy dose of shame. The man had just lost his wife, but it was still too much effort to muster a charitable thought about Malcolm, even with Alfred’s chiding voice in the back of his head. On the one occasion they had met, at his and Rebecca’s wedding, Malcolm had made Bruce’s skin crawl in a way unmatched even by some of the nastiest criminals Bruce tangled with at night. There was just something contemptuous and cold blooded about Malcolm Merlyn that not even the most charming smile could disguise.

Bruce would never understand what Rebecca had seen in him.

Now, Malcolm leaned against a wall table like a king slouched on his throne, commanding the attention of his peers with eyes bloodshot and burning hot as coals, the skin of his lips twitching towards a sneer as he expounded on some point or other. Bruce hovered at the edge of the group, eyes narrowing as Malcolm’s words caught his attention.

“—the real problem. Nothing will change, no part of this city can be lifted for the better, until that shithole district is raised from the level of its lowest gutters. Those people live like animals, and they treat each other like animals. They die like animals.” Malcolm’s hand tightened around his whiskey til the crystal squeaked, his voice thickening, darkening as he went on, “They let my wife die like an animal. Like she was no better than the trash they come from.”

The hair on the back of Bruce’s neck raised at the rage running like a riptide under Malcolm’s words, and at the murmurs of agreement rippling through the men around him.

The sandy-haired man standing at Malcolm’s elbow, Robert Queen if Bruce recalled correctly, hummed thoughtfully, eyes on the amber liquid swirling in his own glass. “The city has neglected the Glades for nearly a generation, and I hate to see that this is the results of that neglect. We all throw money at the problem through our foundations and our companies’ charitable arms, but there’s been so little improvement. Even Rebecca’s clinic—”

Malcolm cut him off with a grim laugh. “Her clinic. She dedicated her goddamn life to helping these fucking people, gave up a top rate medical career to treat addicts and whores and help them pump out the next generation of gang bangers and criminals,” he snarled, “for practically nothing. And that’s how they thanked her in the end. With nothing. Like she was nothing.”

More rumblings of concurrence rippled through the men around Bruce, making him take a cool and assessing glance at each face, reach to recall each name.

“As far as I’m concerned, every one of them is as responsible for Rebecca’s murder as the thug who pulled the trigger,” Malcolm went on, all but growling. “Some ills run in the blood, and criminality and apathy is in the breeding, the culture of every part of the Glades. They don’t want to be helped, or bettered. They don’t want to be saved.”

He paused to toss back a slug of whiskey, in the motion catching sight of Bruce out of the corner of his eye. He turned the crowd’s attention with his, gesturing widely in Bruce’s direction with his drink. “You’d know, wouldn’t you, Wayne? Gotham is practically overrun in every corner with this trash, and I’d run out of fingers on both hands before I could stop naming ineffective and corrupt mayors, every one of them promising social change, every one of them steering their city deeper into the shit. Gotham doesn’t want to be saved, either.”

Bruce carefully unwound the tension in his shoulders and put on the affable, friendly mask he’d cultivated for his daytime persona, if a shade more somber. Around the bitterness on his tongue, he answered, “I don’t know that I’d agree to that. I’ve never seen that there’s a one-size-fits-all cure-all to such a complex problem, and I have to admit. It’s always struck me as reductive the way we view that stratum of society from on high and diagnose their problems without ever lowering ourselves to hear about the nuances and possible solutions from the actual people living those lives.” 

Malcolm’s expression got colder and sharper with every word, but Bruce was being as restrained as he could be; after all, the fist in his pocket had not yet introduced itself to Malcolm’s face. Refusing to break from Malcolm’s scalding stare, Bruce went on, “I think Gotham wants to be listened to about what they actually need and who they are, rather than ‘saved’ from themselves. I’d imagine your Glades aren’t any different.”

The sneer that had been twitching at Malcolm’s lips since Bruce arrived finally pulled across his mouth, baring his teeth even as he scoffed. “You make it so painfully obvious how young you are, kid. Shouldn’t have bothered to speak to you like a grown man who knows anything about the world. You better divest yourself of that naive optimism before the world rips it out of your hide, mark my words.”

A scattering of uncomfortable chuckles followed as Malcolm tossed back the rest of his drink, and the fist in Bruce’s pocket tightened so hard he felt his bones creak. Malcolm knew damn well who he was, and there wasn’t anyone who knew who he was who didn’t also know how much younger he’d been when life had killed any naivete he might have possessed.

Before Bruce could swallow his loathing and anger to formulate a response—or better, an excuse to leave—something bumped by his leg and a young child squeezed through the crowd to catch at Malcolm’s sleeve.

“Dad—”

“Not now, Tommy,” Malcolm dismissed irritably, pulling his arm away from the dark-haired little boy. “Go play with Oliver.”

The boy—Tommy—stuck his chin out stubbornly despite the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks and the tears that so obviously spiked his lashes. He reached for his father’s arm again. “But Dad—”

 Malcolm slammed his glass down on the table, making more than just Tommy flinch. “I said not now, Tommy. Do not make me repeat myself again.”

Bruce’s nostrils flared, his throat closing with fury at Malcolm’s display of temper towards his son. Bruce had seen Tommy at the funeral, small and miserable with tear-streaked cheeks as he stood alone in the cold wind through the eulogy and burial. It had pained Bruce to see him so abandoned, with not even a kind butler to hold his hand as his mother was lowered into the ground. It was too easy to see his own heartbroken face overlaid on Tommy’s, or Dick Grayson’s, the boy Bruce had felt for so keenly he’d taken him into his home only months ago.

Bruce took an ill-considered step forward, but at the same moment Robert Queen stepped aside to let a lovely blonde woman, his wife Moira, enter the circle and reach a hand towards Tommy.

“Tommy, dear, Oliver is looking for you. Come with me.” Moira waited until Tommy reluctantly took his hand, and she turned a sympathetic look to Malcolm.

Malcolm visibly swallowed his anger, showing a little of the grief he had buried underneath it. He reached out and squeezed Moira’s arm. “Thank you, Moira. Tommy forgets sometimes that he is not to interrupt when adults are talking.”

Tommy shrank under the warning glance his father cut at him, eyes lowering to the floor before Moira tugged him through the crowd and away.

Bruce’s gaze trailed after them as they exited the room, his disgust for Malcolm roiling nauseatingly with concern for Tommy. Now that he had seen more of the man Rebecca had married, he worried deeply for how the child she left behind would fare alone with his father.

His concern had apparently not gone unnoticed.

“Just wait, Wayne.” Malcolm recaptured his attention with his acerbic tone. “I heard you took in a foster kid recently. You’ll learn about that,” he gestured after Tommy with a roll of his wrist, “too.”

With those dismissive, mocking words, Bruce’s disdain for Malcolm crystallized, his anger going icy. When Malcolm got no answer from him, he returned to sharing his revelations about the poor with his wealthy friends, and Bruce waited only moments longer before he made a careful and quiet escape.

—————

@memcjo @klaus-hargreeves-katz @its-a-pygmy-puffle @keabbs @princesssarcastia @obscure-sentimentalist @icannotbelieveiamhere @p0cketw0tch @andyouweremine @storiesofimagination @acheaptrickandacheesyoneline @cronusamporaofficial @batsonthebrain @adeusminhacolombina @relevanttosomeone

[scato006-blog]

Searching for a title and feedback.

New to this, would appreciate any feedback. 

All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Stephanie Catozzi

My mother’s hand squeezes around my infantile one, small, petite, and plump even for a 12-year-old. I feel the cold, hard shaft of the metal handle, the gun weighty in my hand. My mother’s breath, laced with Bacardi rum and stale Marlboro lights, coaches me to squeeze harder, my tiny fingertips biting under the pressure and turning light purple at the tips from being held so forcefully.

“You have to hold it like you mean it, steady.” She coaches.

“I don’t want to,” I whine, almost silently.

               The wind kept biting my plump cheeks, and I felt my legs, bare in the November air, tingling and pocking with cold bumps.

               This has become a routine, my mother getting intoxicated or high, and taking a sudden interest in her children and choosing the worst time to suddenly teach us some life skills. My brother, with his autism, is too heady a project to undertake. So, it is me, who at 11 pm is hauled from my kitten covered sheets and dragged outside for an impromptu lesson on protecting myself, undoubtably due to some loosely based on a true story Lifetime network film where a girl, most likely Tori Spelling, is victimized.  

               Thankfully, she loses interest surprisingly fast this time, and when she loosens her grip on my hand, I am able to wrestle past her, knocking her to one knee as she curses and I bolt back into my bed and lock the door. She staggers in and pounds for several moments, calling me names, before I hear her door shut and know she has passed out.

My mother hasn’t been quite right since my father died. I see her leaving often to doctors’ offices, complaining of ailments ranging from pains to depression and anxiety disorders. Her pills litter the tops of our 80’s style maroon kitchen counters; every consistency you can imagine from syringes to tiny multicolored capsules. In the mornings, we see her guzzling down the liquid medications, never using the tiny, clear ridged top that is supposed to serve as a barbie sized measuring cup. Instead, she uses that as a pseudo lid when she gets too inebriated to remember where she put the child proof cap the pharmacist carefully clicks into place. Her arms are littered with pock marks from needles. Some self-inflicted and some from all the blood draws ordered by her physicians. She has become obsessed with this idea of teaching us how to protect ourselves since my father passed. Which later I will realize is terribly contradictory, since the basis of most our inflictions come from her blatant negligence.

               It isn’t until I start having sleepovers with girls outside my neighborhood that I will realize this isn’t a normal occurrence. I spend time with girls whose parents bake them cinnamon buns in the morning slathered with extra crystalline icing, whose mothers collect little figurines cased in glass cabinets without fingertips smeared on them and father figures who go off to work, kissing cheeks instead of backhanding them like the other dads in my neighborhood would do. It’s a foreign world to me, and oddly, it makes me surprisingly uncomfortable to be in such a serene environment. Almost mundane as wild as that may seem to some. Beige. I always notice this common color scheme in these safety net homes, everything was always varying shades of beige from the carpets to the placemats to the sheets. Beige everywhere.

               In the morning, it’s as if nothing has happened, as she bustles around the kitchen getting my brother’s routine down to match the Velcro pictured descriptions that are supposed to help with his over stimulation. I can tell there is something tangible and tense in the air, the blatant ostracizing of me from our tiny family unit. I will learn later that it is due to embarrassment over her own actions, but in the moment from my young perspective, I have somehow failed her.

I gather my things, my teal Jansport backpack smeared with pen marks and patches, and dig in the back cabinet, shoving expired bags of chips and soup out of the way to find a long lost granola bar and walk out the door, pausing before turning the silver knob to look back slightly out of my peripheral at my mother to see if she pauses at the sound of me leaving. She doesn’t.

The bus stop holds a sense of comfort for me, knowing that I will be headed to the one safe institution I have in my young life, school. There are rules, teachers, consistency, and scheduled mealtimes. I know what is coming and when. I know what is expected of me and it isn’t laced with alcohol and substances, or parties in my home with strange men who grab in places they shouldn’t and burn your arms with their cigarettes when you try to yell in protest for someone who is too inebriated to come to your rescue.

Teacher’s take special interest in me, I must exude some sense of chaos at home, my behavior is mildly disruptive with chattering to my fellow neighboring classmates, often causing my desk to be moved adjacent to the teachers to curve my “social butterfly” antics.

Years later, I will run into my favorite English teacher, Ms. Mueller, and she will subtly hint at the signs of abuse she saw from my rumpled clothes to my bruised arms and vacant expression from exhaustion. She will tell me of a time she went to my mother’s store, at the height of our home tsunami during my high school years, and the words heatedly exchanged between them. From that point on, in school, before I have this knowledge, I will choose to spend an hour every day after school with her and be exposed to various forms of literature. She will bring books with her and give me deadlines throughout the year, hoping to keep me driven and expand this world I escape to through books.

Oddly enough, my thirst for books came from the very person I was trying to escape.

In fifth grade I had a teacher I absolutely loathed. It was truly, the first person I had a deep hatred and resentment for. I remember the feelings of rage and a craving for the demolition of our high-ceilinged classroom. Ms. Symzick was a small, petite woman who would prance around her classroom in various shades of loud pinks and magenta, shouting in her irritatingly shrill, chalkboard scraping screeching voice. She had a serious inclination to class favorites, and those favorites tended to be the children of affluent parents she co-vacationed with in the Bahamas and Jamaica, frequently referencing scuba diving explorations and inside jokes she had created with the kids poolside while they showed off their attempts at underwater hand stands. She accused my indifferent attitude towards her and my inability to pay attention to her reading “out loud” to the class on comprehension issues. My mother responded, in typical Tammy fashion, and greeted me that afternoon with a stack of VC Andrews books. Her philosophy was that I needed something to read that could hold my attention in a mildly traumatizing way. Make the book risqué enough for me to care, and it would cure my non attentive approach to active listening. It certainly worked.

While my classmates were reading books about bridges crossing into Terabithia to conquer exciting pretend lands, I was obsessed with mentally trying to connect the incest family trees of wealthy families stuck in attics, toiling away pasting together paper flowers to create gardens. I craved reading about these fucked up families, and was elated to find that not only where the books thick with small font which meant they lasted longer than my classmates small flirtations with literature, but they also were in series so I could follow these families for generations. I would blow through a book a day if it was the weekend, absorbing finally, every comma and black small printed letter flowing into my mind through an osmosis of obsessive reading.

I sit next to Holly and hold her hand under our jackets in solidarity. Holly has the same house as I do, which is baffling and comforting for my young mind. Her brothers shout and throw things in their drunken rages, blaming their parents for their adult failures and losses of custody over children. Her father sits on the couch, sleeps on the couch, drinks on the couch, argues from the couch, he exists on the couch, never intervening. When he would winded from yelling, he would clutch a small, metal vile necklace he always wore. I would learn later it contained a single pill that would melt under his tongue because he was prone to panic attacks from his time in the military.

Holly will sneak into my room, late in the night, when things get bad and she climbs into my bed, cold hands and feet pressed against my calves for warmth. She rustles under my sheets and presses her perfect little bud lips against my cheek and snuggles into my neck and falls asleep fast, just as our thermostat registers the drop in temperature from the window being pried open for her to come in and the furnace clicks on, as always, I fling my leg out from under the blankets, so as to not wake Holly and soak in some cool air as her body heat radiates against my own. I love her and want to protect her, as she is the only one who has ever expressed a kindred likeliness to what I experience behind closed doors. She protects me as well, when my mother opens the door slightly to see if I am awake or when she is under the influence ready for another “life lesson,” she will always close the door and slither away when she sees Holly’s body next to mine.

Holly knew about these moments, in the dead of night when my mother would make her way into the room. She was the one who saw the handprint makes in shades of black and blue, purple then fading to yellows and lime greens. She would take my arm, and lay her hot, brown palm slowly and softly on top of the blue and purple marks so gently, brushing the tops of the soft baby arm hair then would turn over, as if nothing had happened. It was the act of acknowledging, that would transition into acts of protection. She knew if she was there, those marks wouldn’t appear. Holly became an ever-present staple in my life, it was truly as if she was holding me together, fastening my frayed edges to keep them from being burned by my mother and faceless men’s lighters.

This is my day to day, and night to night. The seeking of comfort in concrete things and people outside my home and struggling to find a purpose outside of myself.

Years pass, the same abuses remain constant, even after the school nurse contacts my mother over concerns she has when she sees my bandaged fingers from a screaming hot iron. The difference is the older I get, the more I learn to fight back, slick mouthed and learning to block hands quickly with forearms. I develop the internal switch, for numbing and hardening emotions to dispel any sense of misery or hopelessness, I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable around her and show any form of pain or exaggerated anger. I treat her with complete indifference, which in her drunken, high moments causes absolute meltdowns. Her emotional levels skyrocketing due to inebriation, and my disconnect growing more profound with each outburst. I start to want more, more than these walls and house. I want to sleep peacefully, quietly, and safely. A concept I had never visualized for myself that I thought was coveted for children with two parents and yards without brown spots and littered with dog feces.

I sit, at 15, in my English class, the scared space I have carved out for myself. Ms. Mueller, walks past, having just kicked Gary out of class for shouting at her.

“Dyke gave me a F,” he rages after we are returned our midterm grades.

“Out!” Ms. Mueller declares, stunning me at how she so gracefully and passively dismisses him and his hate slurred words.

As she passes back to her desk, I feel a blue piece of paper get slid under the flesh of my forearm. I slide it under my notebook, I can tell through its delivery, she doesn’t want me to attract any attention through receiving it. She looks pointedly at me, and when the bell rings I rush out to see what it is she has slipped me.

She knows I am not happy with her today. Ms. Mueller detests Holly. There is this just under the surface acknowledgement that they don’t address one another, ever. Holly feels Ms. Mueller is trying to come between us and take time I should be spending time with her and instead am choosing to spend it reading, which is the most boring thing in Holly’s mind. Oddly enough, Holly has detention or make up tests almost every day after school, so her time wouldn’t be spent with me regardless. Holly is known to have her behavioral issues, shouting at teachers and authority figures much in the same fashion as her older brothers do to her and her parents. It is a cycle that has already began its inheritable rotation.

               ���She’s not good for you, you have too much inside you for that one.” Ms. Mueller had told me suddenly, interrupting me reading silently beside her while she worked on the summer reading list for the class, and my own which had easily an extra fifteen books added to it. At the time, I didn’t really understand what it was she meant.

“Too much inside me? What the hell?” I thought. I glared defiantly at the top of her head, wishing I had the nerve to reach out and rustle her short, cropped hair out of its artfully tousled with hair paste landscape just out of spite. She didn’t look up, nor acknowledge my anger filled face, and after some time I set my mouth in a taught line and kept reading. Leaving that day without saying a word when our hour was up.

I open it up and see it’s a flyer, for some summer program called Upward Bound and kids interested in colleges. I had never imagined myself being on some pristine collegiate campus. That was also reserved for the cinnamon bun kids whose parents showed up to every sporting event, cheering them on from the sidelines and pumping their fists in the air, visualizing college scouts coming with hefty scholarships and grants. Not for me, who begged for rides to and from practices, relying on my grandparents for transportation sparsely, so they wouldn’t see the state of our house. My mother would always get angry when her parents came to drop us off, always insisting on coming in to survey the

damage in the house from holes in walls to dirty dishes crawling with critters and cats licking dirty pans for burned egg pieces.

I folded the flyer in half and hastily shoved in under my stack of books on the bottom self in the locker I share with Holly. I am always the bottom shelf, to take my lacking height into consideration. She can’t see it; she will lose her mind. I know this, our codependency has blossomed into a full relationship of unhealthy proportions, two emotionally crippled humans attempting at something far too adult.

I wait, as always, for her to come meet me briefly, and she does. Angry brown eyes, jet black hair, browned skin from her native American heritage, and slanted eyebrows. I forgot she was angry with me from this morning when I pulled my hand away from hers when Kim snatched the jacket up that hid our weaved fingertips.

“Mr. Mason is such an asshole,” she huffs slamming her books in the locker, standing on her tip toes to launch them to the back where we hear them ding as they hit the metal back.

“What happened?” I ask, gauging her temperance to see where we are at. Holly drives the emotional state of our relationship; she being the more volatile of the two of us.

“He gave me detention for missing all that homework,” she huffed as she slammed the locker shut. “I just want school to be done already, I hate it.”

I watched her stalk off, wordless, now definitely wasn’t the time to broach the subject of an academic summer camp that focuses on colleges. Holly was not interested in anything remotely studious, let alone something that would separate us for an entire summer.

I watch her turn the corner of the light seafoam green colored hallways, waiting until I can be sure she is completely out of sight before slamming my elbow into the door right above the turn lock, causing it to pop open, a little trick Tommy showed me last year when he had this locker. I hop up on the toes of my sneakers and grab the flyer out from my Roman History classes textbook.

It is in that moment; I realize I don’t want to stay closeted with Holly and hide holding hands. I don’t want to stay in a home I feel constantly threatened in, showing all the scars on my skin and inside of my flesh. I don’t want to be stuck slinging burgers at the diner down the street, or as a cashier at the grocers. I don’t want to struggle against the New England seasonal depression of grey skies to salt crusted and frost heaved roads. I don’t want to be tied to this place where I feel like a hamster on a spinning wheel, never moving forward and back, just in one constant place.

The flyer announces the meeting is today, in Ms. Mueller’s classroom of course, but an hour after we usually meet. I know Holly has detention, so if there was ever a time I could go and take a glance at what this whole thing is about, it is today when she will be occupied for a definite set amount of time.

I watch the clock anxiously for the last two periods, bouncing my leg in anticipation, choosing to focus more on the seconds hand than the other two since it moves at such a faster pace. Holly isn’t in my last two classes; they are AP and she is sequestered into the more remedial ones where they mostly watch movies instead of getting lectures from young teachers who still feel they can make a difference and impact our lives.

Ms. Mueller is at the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed, her cuffs folded up at the elbow, creased slacks and pointed shiny ebony dress shoes, almost as if she was waiting for me. Now that I look back, I think she was.

“Well here she is, take a seat.” She gestures to the open door.

I look in and see every seat is filled mostly with kids from other schools and a couple familiar faces of girls I have barely exchanged two words with. I slide into a seat near the door, resolving that if I need to make a quick getaway, I will at least have an easy shot to the door. Ms. Mueller positions her chair in the doorway; it’s like she can sense what I am thinking and gives me another one of her pointed stares.

A young man with a lot of vigor and energy and radiant brilliantly white smile bounds up to the front of the room. I will learn almost immediately that his name is Craig when he finally stops bounding around and announces who he is, that he went to Bates College, and dives into a lengthy description of what Upward Bound really is. There are other individuals up there as well, all standing in a line with various colleges strewn on their tee shirts and sweatshirts: Colby-Sawyer, Keene State, UNH, Plymouth State, are some of the names I spot.

The program is a six-week summer session that focuses on preparing students for college and even offers opportunities to take college level classes that can be accredited. Six weeks on a college campus, right in my hometown, sleeping in the dorms, going to classes, they even offer sporting events and excursions to local spots for day trips. It sounded too good to be true.

I looked around the room and saw most of the kids had that same look as I did, clinging to every word. “Give me an escape, please. Tell me I won’t fall through the cracks and be left right here where I started.” Their faces all seemed to say.

Craig took the basic Q&A after his dialogue of wonderous academia enchantment and promise, everyone asking the same things I was wondering. I wouldn’t raise my hand and attract attention to myself, no way.

I saw her then, Jodie, sitting with her hand up to ask more about the sporting opportunities offered, field hockey specifically. She sat with her blonde hairspray scrunched hair, long eyelashes and friendly, wide open blue eyes. I was amazed at how drawn I was to her instantly, like she was the bright glinting Christmas tree of hope in contrast to Holly’s darkness and shadowing pessimistic outlook on life and humanity. There was also this underlying feeling emanating from her. She was wearing adidas snap pants and her field hockey jacket, I knew without knowing, I knew she had the same attraction to females as I did. When Craig answered her question to her satisfaction, Jodie thanked him, and I saw her sign the sheet to enroll and receive more information. I watched that sheet for the rest of the presentation and when we were wrapping up, Ms. Mueller caught me at the door, the sign sheet in her fingertips.

“You forgot something,” she stated, a black pen in her other hand, held out to me.

I stepped aside, opening my mouth to let out a string of excuses, all based in fear and simultaneously worried that if I failed at this camp, I would disappoint her.

“Don’t.” She held up her palm that held the pen. “Sign the paper.”

I realized in that moment; this was my chance. I was on the edge of something, a choice. I knew what I would lose, and I quickly sobered to the reality that what I stood to lose, didn’t outweigh what I had to gain.      

So I made the choice, to take a chance, put the pen to that blue paper, and signed my name, choosing to take that chance, choosing something so much bigger for myself than I could have ever imagined and taking the first step to end the cycle that would have ensnared me just as it did many others. It even would claim Holly in the end, leaving her to browning pine trees, closeted and affairs in secrecy, the shame and impending alcoholism, cursing from her couch just as her father did.

[revenant-02]

Interaction #1: Armin

Diary of Laith, Section titled “The People I’ve known”.

Entry #1: Armin Arlert

Armin can hold himself pretty well, yes he isn’t strong like Eren or Reiner but he’s got the brains. Other than the fact that he’s smart, he’s also a trustworthy and reliable comrade, and I can see why Eren and Mikasa care a great deal about him.

He’s helped me out in multiple occasions, I can learn a lot from him. I just wonder how will I be able to repay him someday....

End of Entry.

(......)

The hell that was Trost gnawed away from his mind as the images of his dead comrades kept appearing, over and over and over again. He can still clearly remember their screams of despair, and the agonizing cries of pain they gave when the Titans began chewing on their bodies.

Laith wanted to believe that he could be able to save everyone, he wanted to believe that there was hope that everyone would be able to make it out alive, but how much of a fool was he to believe a fairytale as stupid as this.

They were all just fodder to the Titans.

Images of his dead children and wife began to resurface on his mind, the scenery of corpses and the blood painting Trost made his breathing pattern become erratic, and his blood run cold. The blood-painted, corpse infested Trost reminded him too much of what he saw back at Shiganshina, it reminded him too much of how his wife and children died.

They were all too young to die, they were all children whose fates were all but sealed by the world’s cruelty. How old was Mina when she died? Thomas? The other Cadets who got devoured by the Titans?

God, they were all just children, children forced to become adults because of this harsh world.

It didn’t matter to Laith that he survived, that Eren turned out to be a human capable of transforming into a Titan.

It wasn’t going to bring back any of the dead, not even the innocent.

The deed was already done.

Suddenly, Laith heard sniffling coming from an alleyway. Concern quickly gripped his heart and his feet lead him towards the source of that noise, into the alleyway.

He turned around and he saw a familiar person sitting on a crate, his glare frozen on the ground and his face stained with tears. 

Armin, it was Armin.

Laith’s face twisted with worry as he approached the distraught boy, he went down to knee level and placed both of his hands on his shoulders.

For a moment, neither of them said anything to each other, their minds were too caught up with the turmoil that was brewing within, that was until Armin took a deep, shaky breath and looked at Laith with the same torn, guilt-ridden expression.

“I’m sorry”. He said.

Laith’s face twisted with confusion, sorry? What was he apologizing for?

Then he suddenly remembered what happened to Armin and his squad, how Armin’s squad got wiped out, and how he was the only one to survive.....

His face softened. “Armin, bud, this isn’t your fault”. Laith said. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened, none of us knew what was going to happen...”.

“But I should’ve done something!”. Armin exclaimed. “But I just....I just kept standing there like the useless coward I am! I could’ve done something to save some of my squad!”. He ranted. “None of them should’ve died....They.....They were better soldiers than I’ll ever be....”.

“I should’ve died instead...”.

Armin’s state reminded Laith of his devastation of losing his entire family, and his guilt for not being able to save them. He was reminded of all of the pain, sorrow and guilt that he had to go through, the very same things that almost lead him to taking his own life if it wasn’t for realizing that this was not what his previous family would’ve wanted.

He saw that Armin was treading down the very same path he tread on once, a path of self-loathing and guilt for something that was beyond his control, and that scared him.

Laith took a deep, shaky breath and he sighed. “Look Armin”. He said. “Look at me bud”.

Armin slowly raised his eyes to meet his brown eyes. “All of this....It wasn’t in the realm of your control”. He said. “We all tell ourselves...We all loathe ourselves for not doing something we thought we were able to do....But are we so sure that if we were given the chance to do it, that we will be able to actually successfully do it?”. He said. 

Armin remained silent.

“Look, Armin, you didn’t kill Mina or Thomas or any of your other squad mates. You did what any normal human being would do, you were afraid, you were scared, you weren’t the only one afraid and no one could blame you for it”. Laith said. “Bud, their blood isn’t on your hands and if they were here right now, would they blame you for what happened?”.

Armin slowly shook his head. “No....”. He said. “But still....”.

“There is no “but still” Armin”. Laith said. “I don’t think you could’ve been able to do anything for your comrades, and this is something that I really hate to admit. We can all mourn the loss of our comrades but we can’t blame the world’s cruelty on ourselves”. He said. “But....All what we can do is give meaning to their sacrifices, to the lives that they once lived....”.

Armin’s face expression slightly lightened as he wiped away the tears that once stained his face. “You’re.....You’re right”. He said. “We should give meaning to the lives that they lived...to the sacrifices that they gave”.

“Spot on, buddy”. Laith said as he gave him a weak smile. “We can’t keep feeling regret over something that’s happened, over something that was beyond our control....All what we can do now is keep fighting for humanity’s glory, that’s what our fallen would’ve wanted from us”.

Armin nodded his head as he smiled back at the man. “Thank you....Thanks for what you told me”. He said. “That...That really helped me out”.

“I’m just doing what I can to a friend”. He said. “Now come on, we have a war to win”.

[almostordinarymary]

Heritage of Today

Mary Kirby

The world has always had controversy and always will. Right now the spotlight is on the removal of the Confederate statues. Civil rights have always been an issue for America, the Civil War did not just overnight fix all the wrongs white people forced onto African Americans. Even 156 years later we still struggle to make amends, people still stay closed minded. Since this has been a current issue there are many articles arguing the right and wrongs. Is the removal necessary? What will it help? Two Articles one by Roger Cohen, the other by Clay Risen, both contain similar arguments. They don’t believe the statues should remain standing, but still have differing ways to get to their opinions. Clay’s takes a more personal approach as he talks about his life, and growing up in the South around all the statues. Cohen is opinion based on the accumulation of knowledge and different news stories and information from the past and the present. He talks about the civil war, and the issues of modern times and the opinions of our President.

Clay Risen takes a personal side to this conflict. He discusses growing up in the South. He would ride his bike past the Confederate statues and think nothing of their looming presences, because for him they were just there. (Risen) This is natural though, because once a person exposes themselves to something enough it’s simple to forget how horrid the situation may be. This is important information to add to set up the theme of his article. It is all about just going past the statues and not thinking about what they stand for.Risen says in the article, “removing the legacy of the Confederacy is harder than toppling a few statues” (Risen). Right there in that single line speaks volumes. The strong rooted Heritage of the Confederacy still stand out in the South today. He talks about the different colleges named for Confederate soldiers Washington and Lee Specifically. Removing the statues yes, they will help get rid of the everyday reminder of the black’s oppression, but it will noget rid of it with the snap of a finger. It is here, and it takes more than just removing states to help the racism, as it is deeply rooted in Southern Heritage. He realizes that people are proud of their history, but sometimes history is nasty business. Adding this also expresses his thoughts knowing that even though the statues can be removed the ideals which are rooted in the minds of people are difficult to remove. That's why the removal of the statues are the easy part.

That isn’t the only reason it is difficult, it is not easy changing the thought process of people's narrow-minded ways of thinking due to the removal of some concrete and other materials, in the shape of Confederate leaders? He speaks as if they are just there, some people are proud, some just like the thought of them being their heritage others just think nothing of them (Risen). While he talks about this he talks about himself doing the same thing. They were just there when he was a child. This is difficult for him to cope with realizing how he didn’t think about what those statues actually represents. Adding this is helpful for him to create a voice and personality. He is not the immune author he has made mistakes which he isn’t proud of. It also shows us our immunity to the past, the saying the past of the past truly lets people live in blissful ignorance, it’s as if we say hey they’re not slaves anymore they have their equal rights so, all is well. But it isn’t. African Americans still fight for their rights every day.

When Clay Risen was growing up like everyone he knew people who were racists, and let’s be honest don’t we all? His grandmother was, along with his golfing partner as a child and he just went with it. He regrets this, but that is what people do (Risen). When he writes about his regrets he does it to prove he isn't writing this to be hypocritical. He has also made the mistake of just letting things go on that shouldn’t. He is writing the piece to right some wrongs and bring into the light his experiences and his regrets. They just live with things and sometimes do not confront issues so they wont create problems. It’s difficult to speak up against wrongs (Risen). Especially when wrongs are everywhere around you, it’s difficult to be a single person with one idea and speak out it's why people have followers, and movements maybe led by one person, but they are thousands maybe millions strong.

In the second article Roger Cohen writes about the war, and recent events that have struck home causing this new uprising. He talks about the Civil War quoting the vice president of the confederacy, Alexander Stephens. “That the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery — subordination to the superior race — is his natural and normal condition” (Cohen). Adding this sets up a scene of the past. He is saying the Civil war was pro slavery, so the Statutes must be too. Bringing the past into this shows us background on the statues and that specific quote is perfect to use because one it is from the Confederacy’s Vice President, but it is a prime example of their thoughts on African Americans. This was the overall feeling towards African Americans during that time, and it was one of the very main reasons of the Civil War, so yes, the monuments do stand for the oppression of African Americans. The argument that it was not, just slaves when comes to the Civil War may be true but it still is a main cause and on which is still felt today. It’s a ridiculous argument, to even try to say, oh the Civil War was to totally about slavery of course not war is caused by many reason but is not like the war wasn’t fought over slavery it was there it was a reason.

Then Roger Cohen begins to speak of recent events including the death of a 32-year-old woman during the Charlottesville protests. But he speaks of the reaction more so than the protest particularly of our President Donald Trump. Who tweeted that “Both sides are to blame” He put this after he mentioned to death of a 32--year-old woman (Cohen). He did this to show his dislike for Donald Trump. At first you don’t know where he is going but when he says again about Donald Trump saying the white supremacists had “very fine people” in it (Cohen). It is a blow to the president as it shows whose side he is on. This part also comes right after the historical reference, so it brings right back to the now. To where we can relate and on topics we have more knowledge on from the many media outlets talking about it.

Right after he also writes about a novel by Ta- Nehisi Coates who wrote about enslavement. Ta-Nehisi Coates is a national correspondent for The Atlantic. Roger used a quote from Coates novel Between the World and Me. “In America, it is traditional to destroy the black body — it is heritage.”Roger Cohen's opinion on that is simple, the statutes should be removed so not to honor the men who fought to continue using human beings as animals for their greater good (Cohen). No one should be used in such a way ever. It is simple as that. Bringing an outside source form an empowering writer like Ta- Nehisi Coates brings another opinion to the table, but it also adds a source for which people to go to understand his opinion on the treatment of African Americans.

Cohen also has one line which speaks volumes. “Memory is emotion” (Cohen). It is. When a person remembers the past weather is be good or bad there are always feelings associated with it. So, if every day you are walking past a statue which is of a person who fought to keep African Americans enslaved and as goods, and you remember it. The whips, the stories, the vulgar language and the horror. It may not bring specific memories of that time, maybe something that has happened to them. Because the world knows racism is not dead. The Klu Klux Klan still meets, white supremacists exist. So, it can bring up your own unpleasant memories and when you remember that deep pitiful sorrow in your gut, it ruins your day, maybe a week or a month. But if you saw these every day, every day could be ruined just by some concrete. Roger Cohen wants us to reach into our memories. This in here makes us think of our past and the past in general for us to create a connection. Without an emotional connection there would be no reason for us to concern ourselves with his piece.

Roger Cohen also sought for a solution for the Confederate Statues. He thought it would be a good idea to put them in a museum, so they would still exist, because destroying history is never something people want, but they shouldn’t be there any longer. He quoted the director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History Lonnie Bunch III who said, “I loathe to erase history” (Cohen). If history isn’t remembered then it will be repeated it's simple, we have to remember all the wrongs that were once done.Putting this in his article proves he doesn't approve of eradicating the statues. He thinks they should be looked on in a museum and not as outside public display. It is not wrong to keep them to remember the horrors of history, but people shouldn't have to be reminded everyday of them.

Both articles argued their opinions well with evidence. Risen’s article though was based more on personal experience, this is helpful to create a sense of bond with readers who may have gone through the same things. Maybe they themselves ride their bikes past the statues during their childhood and thought nothing of it and now are seeing the wrong. It’s not an easy thing to do to admit living life in the dark, but people do, when issues especially controversial racial issues come up it is nice to see someone with their own experiences, may they be similar to yours or not. Because no matter what people say opinions do matter. Cohen used more factual information and news events to back up his opinion. But both agreed the Confederate statues need to come down. It is the best way to help bring us closer to the solution, though it may seem very far away. One step at a time progress will occur.

Work Cited

Cohen, Roger. “Confederate Statues and American Memory.” The New York Times. 6 Sept.

2017.Web.18 Oct.2017

Risen, Clay. “Confederate Statues are the Easy Part.” The New York Times. 18 Aug.

2017. Web. 18 Oct. 2017.