#tamir answers

[thekingofgear]

Jonny's Fender Acoustic

This photo of Jonny playing a Fender dreadnought acoustic was taken by his son Tamir.

To help publicize their upcoming Steve Reich Festival, The Hallé recently shared this photo of Jonny playing a Fender dreadnought acoustic guitar. Jonny will be playing Reich's Electric Counterpoint on the third (and final) day of the festival.

Back in November 2012, Jonny answered fan and celebrity questions in an article for Uncut magazine. Nicolas Gauna from Buenos Aires asked Jonny about his first guitar and the first song he learned, and this was Jonny's reply:

I bought a Fender acoustic for £40 from a “for sale” column in the Oxford Journal when l was about 14, then an electric one from my teacher when l was 16. I still have the acoustic, but the electric one was stolen in Leeds on the first Radiohead tour (at the Duchess Of York, I think… it was a cream Telecaster if anyone's seen it). I don't remember working out many songs by other bands - maybe “Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads. There was a tiny guitar room at school where teenagers hung out playing each other U2 songs - but I never had any U2 records.

Given Jonny's penchant for stickers during his younger days, one can only assume that this is the same guitar that he played when he first strummed his way through Psycho Killer.

Based on the quote, the guitar was purchased in around ~1985, and was already used by that point. Fender had released their California series acoustics in 1983, but they were still relatively new and expensive. So it's more likely that the guitar is from Fender's standard F-series. Price lists show that the F-series was available from Fender through the 70s and 80s. The headstock confirms this: California series guitars have a Stratocaster-style headstock, whereas Jonny's has a more traditional acoustic headstock with the distinctive F-series notch in the center. In addition, we can see a square "Fender" label through the soundhole. A cursory glance through Fender F acoustics shows that the square label was used in the 70s and early-80s, particularly on Japanese-made instruments. They seem to have switched to a round label in the late-80s. This gives further evidence that the guitar in the picture really is Jonny's original acoustic.

Fender's acoustic and classical guitar offerings in April, 1977 (guitar-compare.com). Given the price Jonny paid for a used instrument, it seems very possible that he bought a 1970s F-35 model. The more expensive models like the F-65 had fancier inlays and details, whereas the one in the photo has simple dot inlays on the fingerboard.

[forgetimabluedreamer]

I watched a video the other day of a young Jewish American woman discussing the pro-Zionist propaganda she was exposed to in Hebrew school when she was younger. How in one instance students were asked what their first thought was when thinking about Israel, to which she responded with the word war. This train of thought was then immediately shut down. But it stuck out to me because my answer to this question was the same. More specifically my first thought has always been their military.

Even before the terrible and horrific events that have occurred this month, before more attention was brought to what is happening in Palestine, since I was a child and the only thing I knew about it was what my mother would discuss with me when talking about history (at the time she was my only source of information because I was all of nine). They don’t teach you these things in school, nothing about the occupation and apartheid that is instituted in Palestine. Nothing about the genocide or ethnic cleansing.

Whenever I would happen to hear about Israel, any off handed remark, I would think about their military. When I was a child it was a strange concept to wrap my mind around the idea of mandatory military service. I knew it was different from the draft and that it was mandatory for all Israeli citizens, men and women, to serve in the IDF once they were of age. There are countless countries that implement mandatory military service, to different degrees and within specific circumstances but my entire life, living on an entirely separate continent, this was a nation I knew to be renowned for it. I have seen this notion be disseminated through popular culture and news without any of the historical context, or if so there were firmly assigned roles between who was the hero and who was the villain.

I still remember when I was in elementary school all the headlines and commotion that occurred when a model refused to serve in the IDF back in the early 2000’s (not that it was for any altruistic reasons or condemnation of the occupation of Palestine, made that much more obvious by her current instagram posts 16 years later) and the widespread condemnation she received. I have seen countless movies and television series were a character is mentioned having a background of serving in the IDF (or Mossad as western media treats them as interchangeable) as explanation for their fighting prowess and capability. Consistently and without fail, this idea of the supremacy of the Israeli army has been perpetuated throughout the years. Since before I was born. In none of those instances were the Palestinians ever mentioned aside from being the foe that threatened Israel. Nothing of the slaughter, occupation, and discrimination that they have faced for the better part of a century. Always implied to be a religious fueled aggression on their part when in truth it has everything to do with territory and resources. With extreme nationalism and the far right.

It is horrifying to watch the rate at which misinformation is being spread through the news and social media. Israel has had more than fifty years to perfect their propaganda methods, to weave this tale that what they are doing is just and right. Condemning anyone who criticizes their actions as antisemitic. They have the backing of countless western politicians, businesses, and celebrities because at the end of the day they only care about the bottom line. It’s why the American government has given Israel billions of USD in aid to Israel with Biden promising billions more. Why former chief of Mossad Tamir Pardo was slammed for saying that what is occurring in Palestine is apartheid. Why so many news outlets have reported outright lies, and why you continue to hear journalists repeat the same question “Do you condemn Hamas?” over and over again. All the while Palestinians are without resources, shelter, clean water, no military whatsoever, no means of defending themselves from this annihilation.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

Sderot resident: People opened their doors when Hamas terrorists knocked, thinking they were IDF troops

By CANAAN LIDOR

Shoval Kahlon, a resident of Sderot, describes the situation in the border town which was infiltrated by Hamas terrorists.

“There are Hamas troops walking around. We see videos of them. They’re walking round with impunity,” she tells the Kan public broadcaster from the bomb shelter of her home.

Security forces are fighting terrorists in at least four areas in the town, the broadcaster reports.

“We woke up at 6:30 a.m. to alarms, we thought it was the usual rocket attacks but we started hearing gunshots on the street, sounded like it came from the parking of our building. Then we realized something was unusual. We then started seeing Hamas people in pickup trucks. They knocked on the homes of residents, who thought they were Israeli soldiers. They took them hostage,” says Kahlon.

14min ago

US condemns Hamas attacks on Israeli citizens

By JACOB MAGID

An ultra-Orthodox Jew peers out of a building after a rocket attack from the Gaza Strip in Ashkelon, Israel, on Oct. 7, 2023 (AP Photo/Ohad Zwigenberg)

The United States “unequivocally condemns the unprovoked attacks by Hamas terrorists against Israeli civilians,” says White House National Security Council spokesperson Adrienne Watson.

“There is never any justification for terrorism. We stand firmly with the government and people of Israel and extend our condolences for the Israeli lives lost in these attacks,” Watson says.

US “National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan has spoken to Israeli National Security Advisor Tzachi Hanegbi and we remain in close contact with our Israeli partners,” Watson adds.

24min ago

Baby found at kibbutz where Hamas gunmen infiltrated; parents nowhere to be seen

A baby has been found at Kibbutz Kfar Aza near the Gaza border, and the parents are nowhere to be seen, Channel 12’s Tamir Steinman reports.

The baby is alive. Kibbutz residents are pleading for anyone who has information on the baby’s family to come forward.

The kibbutz is one of several places where Hamas gunmen are still believed to be on the loose.

Steinman, speaking a few minutes later, also says several of his friends and contacts who live in areas close to the Gaza border, including some he was talking to earlier today, “are no longer answering… and it’s clear why they’re not answering.”

Continuous real time updates at The Times of Israel.

[mariacallous]

Around the world today, nationalism is back—and it’s often deeply troubling. Populist politicians exploit nationalism for authoritarian, chauvinistic, racist, and xenophobic purposes, reinforcing the view that it is fundamentally reactionary and antidemocratic. But Yael (Yuli) Tamir makes a passionate argument for a very different kind of nationalism—one that revives its participatory, creative, and egalitarian virtues, answers many of the problems caused by neoliberalism and hyperglobalism, and is essential to democracy at its best. In Why Nationalism, she explains why it is more important than ever for the Left to recognize these qualities of nationalism, to reclaim it from right-wing extremists, and to redirect its power to progressive ends.

Far from being an evil force, nationalism’s power lies in its ability to empower individuals and answer basic human needs. Using it to reproduce cross-class coalitions will ensure that all citizens share essential cultural, political, and economic goods. Shifting emphasis from the global to the national and putting one’s nation first is not a way of advocating national supremacy but of redistributing responsibilities and sharing benefits in a more democratic and just way. In making the case for a liberal and democratic nationalism, Tamir also provides a compelling original account of the ways in which neoliberalism and hyperglobalism have allowed today’s Right to co-opt nationalism for its own purposes.

Provocative and hopeful, Why Nationalism is a timely and essential rethinking of a defining feature of our politics.

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "Dapplethorpe" (Goblin Graham, interlude)

The earlier Goblin Graham installments can be found here within the Rippling Consequences arc.

--

“Oh! Oh my stars. Oh, forgive me. Your face isn’t one I expected to see at my doorstep.”

“Hello, Auntie. I mean, um, Aunt. Sorry. Been a bit. I’m just used to – you know, can we start over? This is why most royals have someone else announce them before they arrive, I guess. And I really should have sent ahead instead of just turning up. I didn’t expect you to recognize me anymore, but you know, process of elimination… I’m sorry, I’m usually rather decent at this sort of thing.”

“Oh, I’m used to it, dear. I sailed with one of my first mates more than twenty years and he still did exactly what you’re doing any time he got back from a shore leave more than two days long.”

“Ha.”

“And let’s just go with Auntie, if it’s all right with you. I’m far too old to get used to a change. Will you be wanting me to call you ‘Majesty?’

“Rosella’s just fine, especially if we’re going the ‘Auntie’ route. Oh dear. I see you were going out. If it’s a bad time I can wait.”

“Oh, don’t. I was only bringing a basket of work down to the brook. It can wait just as well as you can. And the basket didn’t come all the way from Daventry with something on it’s mind. Oh – oh no. Is everything all right? Has something happened?”

“Um… not exactly? I don’t really know how to explain it without telling the whole story.”

“You’ve been riding hard, haven’t you? Haven’t you at least got a guard?”

“I never needed guards in the old days.”

“You must be worn out. And it must be quite the story. Come in and have something to eat and drink by the fire.”

“Is anyone in the house right now?”

“A couple of the hired hands are in the kitchen.”

“Then I’d rather go down to the brookside with you. I think it’d be easier.”

“My dear, you’d better watch it. This is an old body. You might kill me with suspense. Is it bad, whatever it is?” “I don’t know. The magic mirror’s gone all strange. It’s showing the story of Dad escaping the goblin tunnels. But it’s different. This time, it’s showing he got turned into a goblin.” “He got turned into a goblin?”

“In the visions, at least. And this whole thing where he gets out but finds the kingdom is under siege by the goblins. And it won’t stop like it used to. It just goes on and on showing. Gwendolyn’s convinced it’s somehow showing something real. It’s driving her mad. And we don’t have answers. I asked everyone in Daventry who was alive at that time what they remembered – and they all say it doesn’t line up. Dad came back, perfectly himself, they say, and other than a few kidnapped villagers, everything was normal and peaceful in Daventry. Just the way he’s always told it. The guards don’t remember it taking place that way.” “They’re still going?”

“A few old-timers are, anyway. They don’t remember it like that – but it’s all a bit blurry for them. Age, I expect. I haven’t seen Ken take his helmet off in ages, but he’s got to be positively ancient by now, and you know how old people and their memories – oh! Oh, well that’s put my foot in it.”

“A bit. Now take it out of your mouth so you can keep talking.”

“Well, there’s no one else left in Daventry who was alive at the time. And then I remembered you. And that Dad came here to see you and Grandma not long after the whole goblin thing, and I thought… well, it’s silly, but if you could just tell me something about it either which way, it might help. I’m so worried for Gwendolyn. She’s in an absolute state about it all.”

“Oh my. I have no idea what to say. I never heard of anything like this.”

“That he was a goblin?”

“Or any of it. But then, I wasn’t here. I was… let me think. If we’re talking about the time Graham got kidnapped, I was on the voyage to Tamir at that time – I was gone nearly a year. I’m afraid the guards are better help than I am.”

“Oh. I’m --”

“No, no apologies. Neither of us is wasting our time. This isn’t the end of your trail. We’ve hardly even talked. Look. You give me my cane, and if you wouldn’t mind taking the basket, we’ll head down to the brook and try to make heads and tails if we can.”

“I’m awfully grateful.”

“At least I’ll get a story out of it. It’s a crime how long it’s been since I’ve connected with the family. Come on. Down the path round the back. The thing is, at the time you’re talking about, I wasn’t home, like I said. It was our oldest sister who was still living with my Mom at the time. She’d have been the one to talk to.”

“But she’s gone.”

“Right. But she told me things. Madeline always told us things when we came and went. And she kept things too. She had so many chests of things she kept. A regular hoarder, rest her soul. Now I wonder. I wonder.”

[readingsquotes]

The IDF announcement explicitly stated that the school “serves as a shelter for residents of Gaza City,” meaning that the IDF knew refugees had fled there in fear of the army’s own bombings. The statement did not claim that there was any gunfire or rocket attacks from the school, but that “Hamas terrorists … planned and promoted … terrorist acts” from it. Nor did it claim that the civilians who took refuge in the school were given any warning, only that the army had used “precision weapons” and “intelligence.” In other words, the army bombed a populated shelter knowing full well the deadly repercussions its assault would inflict.

...

s. When it comes to the resounding security failures that led to October 7, the Israeli media, and especially the right-wing media, is allowed to be critical and skeptical of the army. But when it comes to killing Palestinians, such skepticism is thrown out the window: in Gaza, the army is always right. 

“In war, schools are off limits,” Prof. Yuli Tamir, Israel’s former education minister, wrote in Haaretz. “Isn’t there a single commander who will say, ‘No more?’” The answer is a resounding no. Every war entails a certain level of dehumanization of the enemy. But it seems that in the current war in Gaza, the dehumanization of Palestinians is close to absolute. 

...

The Israeli military has killed at least 40,000 Palestinians in Gaza — about two percent of the Strip’s population. It has wreaked total havoc, systematically destroying residential neighborhoods, schools, hospitals, and universities.

...

This dehumanization has reached new heights in recent weeks with the debate over the legitimacy of raping Palestinian prisoners. In a discussion on the mainstream TV network Channel 12, Yehuda Shlezinger, a “commentator” from the right-wing daily Israel Hayom, called for institutionalizing rape of prisoners as part of military practice. At least three Knesset members from the ruling Likud party also argued that Israeli soldiers should be allowed to do anything, including rape.

...

The occupation has not only enriched Israel (defense exports have reached a record of $13 billion in 2023, for example), but has helped it to maintain two parallel systems of government — colonialism and apartheid in the occupied territories, and liberal democracy for Jews within the Green Line — and perhaps even two parallel moral systems.

[whatib]

What is this

Precisely Watson! Perfectly stated. Short and factual. I've been pretty sure that this is all a product of the connected social media world we have created. It gives a voice to everyone and this Cancer of hate is extremely infectious. I don't know what the answer is other than secession, but I don't foresee these two sides ever coming together ever again. I've never voted and I've watched this country unfold for 58 years now. I watched every political battle since Carter in 1976. This country has gone through some amazing events, civil wars, world wars, terrorism, modernization, past every planet, walked on the Moon, and elected a Black American to be the President of the United States of America 🇺🇸 shyte even i cried that day. Still love the fact that I lived thru that day, I felt that the country finally made it to the apex of what America stood for. And holy shyte, I could've never predicted where we are in society in a million years. This is the trippiest of times. People are trying to change their sex and their body parts. People are cutting off their children's genitals. If you told me that was coming in 1980, I would've bet my house against it and I would've lost. This is the strangest of times, a bit nervy, and scary. It sometimes feels like I'm in a Twilight Zone episode and that's when i really shyte my pants. I do my best to turn off the news. I turned it off when President Trump wielded the executive order pen and was exploding everything Obama did. I went to the inauguration and saw people crying in the streets, and burning flags. Didn't really like that, I've never seen a reason to do that. That's the ultimate "you don't give a shyte" attitude so now you're just going to make things worse for society by destroying other people's property or stealing, and basically doing nothing positive. I don't relate to that but I can honestly say that I was like that at 17yrs old maybe till 25. Then I realized I need to do something with my life or I'm going to be bitching forever. I got to work as busboy, then bartender, roofer, steel worker, draftsman, airline employee, software engineer. Wound up traveling the world when I was in my 30's and 20 yrs later started a foundation for special needs young adults with my wife. It's been one crazy journey living in the greatest country in the world. But today, these are grievous times we live in, and without war or strife even. It's purely groups of hate that have infected society. In my journey, I've worked with every type of person imaginable. Worked with at least 500 to 1000 gay people in the airline industry, never had a problem. I worked on the ramp and I was the minority. There was the Puerto Rican group, the Cuban group, New Jersey black Americans, Africans from Ghana...I felt I got along with everyone. Everyone had their own clique. And they enjoyed socializing in their groups. Ticket counter had the gay groups. I don't remember any hate. Today, if you don't preach hate then you're not IN, you're uncool, you're unacceptable. Democrats preach hate to their children, Republicans preach hate to their children. I'll never vote, I can't pick a side that I believe in. I'm just on a small wooden raft floating on the waves of the American Flag and the waves are going up and down like mad right now. I think that's exactly what it is. It's a madness that's infected society. And Obama released the hounds with BLM in the first few months of his 2nd term. Obama never gave them a voice. He stirred the BLM pot over and over. When he did nothing about Eric Garner who was sat on by six police officers and died, I didn't understand why Obama didn't step up, still don't. That was his time to address the new Rodney King. Eric didn't even steal anything. He was selling cigaretttes...individually. As in one at a time. And he lost his life. Then the ultimate travesty of all time, was when Tamir Rice was shot by a police officer as he played with a toy gun all alone in a park gazebo. Cop just drove up and shot him. Obama did nothing. Absolutely nothing...

[hazardous-waste-containment]

“Who is the creator of history?” Aḥime’ir discussed this question a few weeks after the Conference in Vienna, providing a detailed answer, connecting Jewish tradition with contemporary politics:

This question was answered at the time by the French and Russian intelligentsia as follows: history is created by the circumstances, by the abstract external conditions, by humanity, the people, the masses—but not the person. German and Italian intelligentsia, by contrast, reply: heroes create history—not the opposite. And this is the reply of Judaism [as well], which cannot even be imagined without the term Redeemer. Western and eastern Europe are saturated with hatred towards heroes; the central European world view is saturated by a cult of heroes.

— Dan Tamir, Hebrew Fascism in Palestine, 1922–1942

[cheese-greater-official]

I think I might have a crush on you

But like thanks???

[blackwoolncrown]

”This essay has been kicking around in my head for years now and I’ve never felt confident enough to write it. It’s a time in my life I’m ashamed of. It’s a time that I hurt people and, through inaction, allowed others to be hurt. It’s a time that I acted as a violent agent of capitalism and white supremacy. Under the guise of public safety, I personally ruined people’s lives but in so doing, made the public no safer… so did the family members and close friends of mine who also bore the badge alongside me.

But enough is enough.

The reforms aren’t working. Incrementalism isn’t happening. Unarmed Black, indigenous, and people of color are being killed by cops in the streets and the police are savagely attacking the people protesting these murders.

American policing is a thick blue tumor strangling the life from our communities and if you don’t believe it when the poor and the marginalized say it, if you don’t believe it when you see cops across the country shooting journalists with less-lethal bullets and caustic chemicals, maybe you’ll believe it when you hear it straight from the pig’s mouth.”

>>Copied here in case anyone gets paywalled when they click the above. The full article is...a lot.<<

WHY AM I WRITING THIS

As someone who went through the training, hiring, and socialization of a career in law enforcement, I wanted to give a first-hand account of why I believe police officers are the way they are. Not to excuse their behavior, but to explain it and to indict the structures that perpetuate it.

I believe that if everyone understood how we’re trained and brought up in the profession, it would inform the demands our communities should be making of a new way of community safety. If I tell you how we were made, I hope it will empower you to unmake us.

One of the other reasons I’ve struggled to write this essay is that I don’t want to center the conversation on myself and my big salty boo-hoo feelings about my bad choices. It’s a toxic white impulse to see atrocities and think “How can I make this about me?” So, I hope you’ll take me at my word that this account isn’t meant to highlight me, but rather the hundred thousand of me in every city in the country. It’s about the structure that made me (that I chose to pollute myself with) and it’s my meager contribution to the cause of radical justice.

YES, ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS

I was a police officer in a major metropolitan area in California with a predominantly poor, non-white population (with a large proportion of first-generation immigrants). One night during briefing, our watch commander told us that the city council had requested a new zero tolerance policy. Against murderers, drug dealers, or child predators?

No, against homeless people collecting cans from recycling bins.

See, the city had some kickback deal with the waste management company where waste management got paid by the government for our expected tonnage of recycling. When homeless people “stole” that recycling from the waste management company, they were putting that cheaper contract in peril. So, we were to arrest as many recyclers as we could find.

Even for me, this was a stupid policy and I promptly blew Sarge off. But a few hours later, Sarge called me over to assist him. He was detaining a 70 year old immigrant who spoke no English, who he’d seen picking a coke can out of a trash bin. He ordered me to arrest her for stealing trash. I said, “Sarge, c’mon, she’s an old lady.” He said, “I don’t give a shit. Hook her up, that’s an order.” And… I did. She cried the entire way to the station and all through the booking process. I couldn’t even comfort her because I didn’t speak Spanish. I felt disgusting but I was ordered to make this arrest and I wasn’t willing to lose my job for her.

If you’re tempted to feel sympathy for me, don’t. I used to happily hassle the homeless under other circumstances. I researched obscure penal codes so I could arrest people in homeless encampments for lesser known crimes like “remaining too close to railroad property” (369i of the California Penal Code). I used to call it “planting warrant seeds” since I knew they wouldn’t make their court dates and we could arrest them again and again for warrant violations.

We used to have informal contests for who could cite or arrest someone for the weirdest law. DUI on a bicycle, non-regulation number of brooms on your tow truck (27700(a)(1) of the California Vehicle Code)… shit like that. For me, police work was a logic puzzle for arresting people, regardless of their actual threat to the community. As ashamed as I am to admit it, it needs to be said: stripping people of their freedom felt like a game to me for many years.

I know what you’re going to ask: did I ever plant drugs? Did I ever plant a gun on someone? Did I ever make a false arrest or file a false report? Believe it or not, the answer is no. Cheating was no fun, I liked to get my stats the “legitimate” way. But I knew officers who kept a little baggie of whatever or maybe a pocket knife that was a little too big in their war bags (yeah, we called our dufflebags “war bags”…). Did I ever tell anybody about it? No I did not. Did I ever confess my suspicions when cocaine suddenly showed up in a gang member’s jacket? No I did not.

In fact, let me tell you about an extremely formative experience: in my police academy class, we had a clique of around six trainees who routinely bullied and harassed other students: intentionally scuffing another trainee’s shoes to get them in trouble during inspection, sexually harassing female trainees, cracking racist jokes, and so on. Every quarter, we were to write anonymous evaluations of our squadmates. I wrote scathing accounts of their behavior, thinking I was helping keep bad apples out of law enforcement and believing I would be protected. Instead, the academy staff read my complaints to them out loud and outed me to them and never punished them, causing me to get harassed for the rest of my academy class. That’s how I learned that even police leadership hates rats. That’s why no one is “changing things from the inside.” They can’t, the structure won’t allow it.

And that’s the point of what I’m telling you. Whether you were my sergeant, legally harassing an old woman, me, legally harassing our residents, my fellow trainees bullying the rest of us, or “the bad apples” illegally harassing “shitbags”, we were all in it together. I knew cops that pulled women over to flirt with them. I knew cops who would pepper spray sleeping bags so that homeless people would have to throw them away. I knew cops that intentionally provoked anger in suspects so they could claim they were assaulted. I was particularly good at winding people up verbally until they lashed out so I could fight them. Nobody spoke out. Nobody stood up. Nobody betrayed the code.

None of us protected the people (you) from bad cops.

This is why “All cops are bastards.” Even your uncle, even your cousin, even your mom, even your brother, even your best friend, even your spouse, even me. Because even if they wouldn’t Do The Thing themselves, they will almost never rat out another officer who Does The Thing, much less stop it from happening.

BASTARD 101

I could write an entire book of the awful things I’ve done, seen done, and heard others bragging about doing. But, to me, the bigger question is “How did it get this way?”. While I was a police officer in a city 30 miles from where I lived, many of my fellow officers were from the community and treated their neighbors just as badly as I did. While every cop’s individual biases come into play, it’s the profession itself that is toxic, and it starts from day 1 of training.

Every police academy is different but all of them share certain features: taught by old cops, run like a paramilitary bootcamp, strong emphasis on protecting yourself more than anyone else. The majority of my time in the academy was spent doing aggressive physical training and watching video after video after video of police officers being murdered on duty.

I want to highlight this: nearly everyone coming into law enforcement is bombarded with dash cam footage of police officers being ambushed and killed. Over and over and over. Colorless VHS mortality plays, cops screaming for help over their radios, their bodies going limp as a pair of tail lights speed away into a grainy black horizon. In my case, with commentary from an old racist cop who used to brag about assaulting Black Panthers.

To understand why all cops are bastards, you need to understand one of the things almost every training officer told me when it came to using force:

“I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by 6.”

Meaning, “I’ll take my chances in court rather than risk getting hurt”. We’re able to think that way because police unions are extremely overpowered and because of the generous concept of Qualified Immunity, a legal theory which says a cop generally can’t be held personally liable for mistakes they make doing their job in an official capacity.

When you look at the actions of the officers who killed George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, David McAtee, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner, or Freddie Gray, remember that they, like me, were trained to recite “I’d rather be judged by 12” as a mantra. Even if Mistakes Were Made™, the city (meaning the taxpayers, meaning you) pays the settlement, not the officer.

Once police training has - through repetition, indoctrination, and violent spectacle - promised officers that everyone in the world is out to kill them, the next lesson is that your partners are the only people protecting you. Occasionally, this is even true: I’ve had encounters turn on me rapidly to the point I legitimately thought I was going to die, only to have other officers come and turn the tables.

One of the most important thought leaders in law enforcement is Col. Dave Grossman, a “killologist” who wrote an essay called “Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs”. Cops are the sheepdogs, bad guys are the wolves, and the citizens are the sheep (!). Col. Grossman makes sure to mention that to a stupid sheep, sheepdogs look more like wolves than sheep, and that’s why they dislike you.

This “they hate you for protecting them and only I love you, only I can protect you” tactic is familiar to students of abuse. It’s what abusers do to coerce their victims into isolation, pulling them away from friends and family and ensnaring them in the abuser’s toxic web. Law enforcement does this too, pitting the officer against civilians. “They don’t understand what you do, they don’t respect your sacrifice, they just want to get away with crimes. You’re only safe with us.”

I think the Wolves vs. Sheepdogs dynamic is one of the most important elements as to why officers behave the way they do. Every single second of my training, I was told that criminals were not a legitimate part of their community, that they were individual bad actors, and that their bad actions were solely the result of their inherent criminality. Any concept of systemic trauma, generational poverty, or white supremacist oppression was either never mentioned or simply dismissed. After all, most people don’t steal, so anyone who does isn’t “most people,” right? To us, anyone committing a crime deserved anything that happened to them because they broke the “social contract.” And yet, it was never even a question as to whether the power structure above them was honoring any sort of contract back.

Understand: Police officers are part of the state monopoly on violence and all police training reinforces this monopoly as a cornerstone of police work, a source of honor and pride. Many cops fantasize about getting to kill someone in the line of duty, egged on by others that have. One of my training officers told me about the time he shot and killed a mentally ill homeless man wielding a big stick. He bragged that he “slept like a baby” that night. Official training teaches you how to be violent effectively and when you’re legally allowed to deploy that violence, but “unofficial training” teaches you to desire violence, to expand the breadth of your violence without getting caught, and to erode your own compassion for desperate people so you can justify punitive violence against them.

HOW TO BE A BASTARD

I have participated in some of these activities personally, others are ones I either witnessed personally or heard officers brag about openly. Very, very occasionally, I knew an officer who was disciplined or fired for one of these things.

Police officers will lie about the law, about what’s illegal, or about what they can legally do to you in order to manipulate you into doing what they want.

Police officers will lie about feeling afraid for their life to justify a use of force after the fact.

Police officers will lie and tell you they’ll file a police report just to get you off their back.

Police officers will lie that your cooperation will “look good for you” in court, or that they will “put in a good word for you with the DA.” The police will never help you look good in court.

Police officers will lie about what they see and hear to access private property to conduct unlawful searches.

Police officers will lie and say your friend already ratted you out, so you might as well rat them back out. This is almost never true.

Police officers will lie and say you’re not in trouble in order to get you to exit a location or otherwise make an arrest more convenient for them.

Police officers will lie and say that they won’t arrest you if you’ll just “be honest with them” so they know what really happened.

Police officers will lie about their ability to seize the property of friends and family members to coerce a confession.

Police officers will write obviously bullshit tickets so that they get time-and-a-half overtime fighting them in court.

Police officers will search places and containers you didn’t consent to and later claim they were open or “smelled like marijuana”.

Police officers will threaten you with a more serious crime they can’t prove in order to convince you to confess to the lesser crime they really want you for.

Police officers will employ zero tolerance on races and ethnicities they dislike and show favor and lenience to members of their own group.

Police officers will use intentionally extra-painful maneuvers and holds during an arrest to provoke “resistance” so they can further assault the suspect.

Some police officers will plant drugs and weapons on you, sometimes to teach you a lesson, sometimes if they kill you somewhere away from public view.

Some police officers will assault you to intimidate you and threaten to arrest you if you tell anyone.

A non-trivial number of police officers will steal from your house or vehicle during a search.

A non-trivial number of police officers commit intimate partner violence and use their status to get away with it.

A non-trivial number of police officers use their position to entice, coerce, or force sexual favors from vulnerable people.

If you take nothing else away from this essay, I want you to tattoo this onto your brain forever: if a police officer is telling you something, it is probably a lie designed to gain your compliance.

Do not talk to cops and never, ever believe them. Do not “try to be helpful” with cops. Do not assume they are trying to catch someone else instead of you. Do not assume what they are doing is “important” or even legal. Under no circumstances assume any police officer is acting in good faith.

Also, and this is important, do not talk to cops.

I just remembered something, do not talk to cops.

Checking my notes real quick, something jumped out at me:

Do

not

fucking

talk

to

cops.

Ever.

Say, “I don’t answer questions,” and ask if you’re free to leave; if so, leave. If not, tell them you want your lawyer and that, per the Supreme Court, they must terminate questioning. If they don’t, file a complaint and collect some badges for your mantle.

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

Armed, indoctrinated (and dare I say, traumatized) cops do not make you safer; community mutual aid networks who can unite other people with the resources they need to stay fed, clothed, and housed make you safer. I really want to hammer this home: every cop in your neighborhood is damaged by their training, emboldened by their immunity, and they have a gun and the ability to take your life with near-impunity. This does not make you safer, even if you’re white.

HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE A BASTARD?

So what do we do about it? Even though I’m an expert on bastardism, I am not a public policy expert nor an expert in organizing a post-police society. So, before I give some suggestions, let me tell you what probably won’t solve the problem of bastard cops:

Increased “bias” training. A quarterly or even monthly training session is not capable of covering over years of trauma-based camaraderie in police forces. I can tell you from experience, we don’t take it seriously, the proctors let us cheat on whatever “tests” there are, and we all made fun of it later over coffee.

Tougher laws. I hope you understand by now, cops do not follow the law and will not hold each other accountable to the law. Tougher laws are all the more reason to circle the wagons and protect your brothers and sisters.

More community policing programs. Yes, there is a marginal effect when a few cops get to know members of the community, but look at the protests of 2020: many of the cops pepper-spraying journalists were probably the nice school cop a month ago.

Police officers do not protect and serve people, they protect and serve the status quo, “polite society”, and private property. Using the incremental mechanisms of the status quo will never reform the police because the status quo relies on police violence to exist. Capitalism requires a permanent underclass to exploit for cheap labor and it requires the cops to bring that underclass to heel.

Instead of wasting time with minor tweaks, I recommend exploring the following ideas:

No more qualified immunity. Police officers should be personally liable for all decisions they make in the line of duty.

No more civil asset forfeiture. Did you know that every year, citizens like you lose more cash and property to unaccountable civil asset forfeiture than to all burglaries combined? The police can steal your stuff without charging you with a crime and it makes some police departments very rich.

Break the power of police unions. Police unions make it nearly impossible to fire bad cops and incentivize protecting them to protect the power of the union. A police union is not a labor union; police officers are powerful state agents, not exploited workers.

Require malpractice insurance. Doctors must pay for insurance in case they botch a surgery, police officers should do the same for botching a police raid or other use of force. If human decency won’t motivate police to respect human life, perhaps hitting their wallet might.

Defund, demilitarize, and disarm cops. Thousands of police departments own assault rifles, armored personnel carriers, and stuff you’d see in a warzone. Police officers have grants and huge budgets to spend on guns, ammo, body armor, and combat training. 99% of calls for service require no armed response, yet when all you have is a gun, every problem feels like target practice. Cities are not safer when unaccountable bullies have a monopoly on state violence and the equipment to execute that monopoly.

One final idea: consider abolishing the police.

I know what you’re thinking, “What? We need the police! They protect us!” As someone who did it for nearly a decade, I need you to understand that by and large, police protection is marginal, incidental. It’s an illusion created by decades of copaganda designed to fool you into thinking these brave men and women are holding back the barbarians at the gates.

I alluded to this above: the vast majority of calls for service I handled were theft reports, burglary reports, domestic arguments that hadn’t escalated into violence, loud parties, (houseless) people loitering, traffic collisions, very minor drug possession, and arguments between neighbors. Mostly the mundane ups and downs of life in the community, with little inherent danger. And, like I mentioned, the vast majority of crimes I responded to (even violent ones) had already happened; my unaccountable license to kill was irrelevant.

What I mainly provided was an “objective” third party with the authority to document property damage, ask people to chill out or disperse, or counsel people not to beat each other up. A trained counselor or conflict resolution specialist would be ten times more effective than someone with a gun strapped to his hip wondering if anyone would try to kill him when he showed up. There are many models for community safety that can be explored if we get away from the idea that the only way to be safe is to have a man with a M4 rifle prowling your neighborhood ready at a moment’s notice to write down your name and birthday after you’ve been robbed and beaten.

You might be asking, “What about the armed robbers, the gangsters, the drug dealers, the serial killers?” And yes, in the city I worked, I regularly broke up gang parties, found gang members carrying guns, and handled homicides. I’ve seen some tragic things, from a reformed gangster shot in the head with his brains oozing out to a fifteen year old boy taking his last breath in his screaming mother’s arms thanks to a gang member’s bullet. I know the wages of violence.

This is where we have to have the courage to ask: why do people rob? Why do they join gangs? Why do they get addicted to drugs or sell them? It’s not because they are inherently evil. I submit to you that these are the results of living in a capitalist system that grinds people down and denies them housing, medical care, human dignity, and a say in their government. These are the results of white supremacy pushing people to the margins, excluding them, disrespecting them, and treating their bodies as disposable.

Equally important to remember: disabled and mentally ill people are frequently killed by police officers not trained to recognize and react to disabilities or mental health crises. Some of the people we picture as “violent offenders” are often people struggling with untreated mental illness, often due to economic hardships. Very frequently, the officers sent to “protect the community” escalate this crisis and ultimately wound or kill the person. Your community was not made safer by police violence; a sick member of your community was killed because it was cheaper than treating them. Are you extremely confident you’ll never get sick one day too?

Wrestle with this for a minute: if all of someone’s material needs were met and all the members of their community were fed, clothed, housed, and dignified, why would they need to join a gang? Why would they need to risk their lives selling drugs or breaking into buildings? If mental healthcare was free and was not stigmatized, how many lives would that save?

Would there still be a few bad actors in the world? Sure, probably. What’s my solution for them, you’re no doubt asking. I’ll tell you what: generational poverty, food insecurity, houselessness, and for-profit medical care are all problems that can be solved in our lifetimes by rejecting the dehumanizing meat grinder of capitalism and white supremacy. Once that’s done, we can work on the edge cases together, with clearer hearts not clouded by a corrupt system.

Police abolition is closely related to the idea of prison abolition and the entire concept of banishing the carceral state, meaning, creating a society focused on reconciliation and restorative justice instead of punishment, pain, and suffering — a system that sees people in crisis as humans, not monsters. People who want to abolish the police typically also want to abolish prisons, and the same questions get asked: “What about the bad guys? Where do we put them?” I bring this up because abolitionists don’t want to simply replace cops with armed social workers or prisons with casual detention centers full of puffy leather couches and Playstations. We imagine a world not divided into good guys and bad guys, but rather a world where people’s needs are met and those in crisis receive care, not dehumanization.

Here’s legendary activist and thinker Angela Y. Davis putting it better than I ever could:

“An abolitionist approach that seeks to answer questions such as these would require us to imagine a constellation of alternative strategies and institutions, with the ultimate aim of removing the prison from the social and ideological landscapes of our society. In other words, we would not be looking for prisonlike substitutes for the prison, such as house arrest safeguarded by electronic surveillance bracelets. Rather, positing decarceration as our overarching strategy, we would try to envision a continuum of alternatives to imprisonment-demilitarization of schools, revitalization of education at all levels, a health system that provides free physical and mental care to all, and a justice system based on reparation and reconciliation rather than retribution and vengeance.”

(Are Prisons Obsolete, pg. 107)

I’m not telling you I have the blueprint for a beautiful new world. What I’m telling you is that the system we have right now is broken beyond repair and that it’s time to consider new ways of doing community together. Those new ways need to be negotiated by members of those communities, particularly Black, indigenous, disabled, houseless, and citizens of color historically shoved into the margins of society. Instead of letting Fox News fill your head with nightmares about Hispanic gangs, ask the Hispanic community what they need to thrive. Instead of letting racist politicians scaremonger about pro-Black demonstrators, ask the Black community what they need to meet the needs of the most vulnerable. If you truly desire safety, ask not what your most vulnerable can do for the community, ask what the community can do for the most vulnerable.

A WORLD WITH FEWER BASTARDS IS POSSIBLE

If you take only one thing away from this essay, I hope it’s this: do not talk to cops. But if you only take two things away, I hope the second one is that it’s possible to imagine a different world where unarmed black people, indigenous people, poor people, disabled people, and people of color are not routinely gunned down by unaccountable police officers. It doesn’t have to be this way. Yes, this requires a leap of faith into community models that might feel unfamiliar, but I ask you:

When you see a man dying in the street begging for breath, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a mother or a daughter shot to death sleeping in their beds, don’t you want to leap away from that world?

When you see a twelve year old boy executed in a public park for the crime of playing with a toy, jesus fucking christ, can you really just stand there and think “This is normal”?

And to any cops who made it this far down, is this really the world you want to live in? Aren’t you tired of the trauma? Aren’t you tired of the soul sickness inherent to the badge? Aren’t you tired of looking the other way when your partners break the law? Are you really willing to kill the next George Floyd, the next Breonna Taylor, the next Tamir Rice? How confident are you that your next use of force will be something you’re proud of? I’m writing this for you too: it’s wrong what our training did to us, it’s wrong that they hardened our hearts to our communities, and it’s wrong to pretend this is normal.

Look, I wouldn’t have been able to hear any of this for much of my life. You reading this now may not be able to hear this yet either. But do me this one favor: just think about it. Just turn it over in your mind for a couple minutes. “Yes, And” me for a minute. Look around you and think about the kind of world you want to live in. Is it one where an all-powerful stranger with a gun keeps you and your neighbors in line with the fear of death, or can you picture a world where, as a community, we embrace our most vulnerable, meet their needs, heal their wounds, honor their dignity, and make them family instead of desperate outsiders?

If you take only three things away from this essay, I hope the third is this: you and your community don’t need bastards to thrive.

RESOURCES TO YES-AND WITH

Achele Mbembe — Necropolitics

Angela Y. Davis — Are Prisons Obsolete?

CriticalResistance.org — Abolition Toolkit

Joe Macaré, Maya Schenwar, and Alana Yu-lan Price — Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?

Ruth Wilson Gilmore — COVID-19, Decarceration, Abolition [video]

[metalheadsforblacklivesmatter]

"He was resisting."

SO? RAISING ARREST ISN'T GROUNDS FOR MURDER. IF THEY DON'T POSE AN IMMEDIATE DANGER TO YOU OR OTHERS, THAT'S NOT GROUNDS FOR MURDER.

If he's resisting and you fail to subdue him, then the correct answer is he escapes, you call your buddies, you already know where he is, and even you capture him again you'll more backup to capture him.

You don't fucking shoot him.

LET ME MAKE IT ABUNDANTLY CLEAR.

If he's running away, and a cop says, "Police! Freeze!" And he doesn't freeze, you don't fucking shoot him. He's not an immediate threat.

If you're holding him and he's squirming trying to escape, you don't assault or murder him. Assaulting him (especially anything that will make it harder to breath of inflict continuous pain) will only make him struggle MORE.

Jesus, even the lifeguards I know, "The harder it is for them the breath, the more they struggle." And the lifeguards I know are real "muscle to make up for brain" types.

Jesus.

And maybe just maybe, have you thought of this? MAYBE BLACK PEOPLE WOULD BE MORE COMPLIANT IF YOU STOPPED ASSAULTING AND MURDERING THEM FOR NO FUCKING REASON. EVER THOUGHT OF THAT?

Because even the compliant ones that do nothing wrong like Tamir Rice A LITERAL CHILD end up dead.

Just a thought.

-fae

[thundergrace]

marvin scott was killed in police custody for a petty marijuana charge all while he was having an episode of schizophrenia. his story deserves to be heard and justice needs to be called for!

There are people murdered by cops or left to die in their custody in this country literally every single day. We can't keep with every victim and our emotional and mental well-being wouldn't survive if we did.

Having said that, yes, I did see this story on Twitter.

The family's attorney is Lee Merritt who was recently named in a statement from Tamir Rice's mother as a clout/ambulance chaser, so I hope he does right by them.

[pinkdoomflower]

This will be long

I went through my notifications and found SO MANY people I never answered!

So

HERE WE GO

ONG EILAR AS BEST FRIENDS. Of course I miss their romance but its agood way to show not EVERYONE is on bad terms with their ex.

Also they’d just be cute.

@lolasphere I kiiiinda see it 🤣 ANYTHING is better than Tamir

to be they’re more like a BROTP

@swag-rosalinda i think I’ll make a post later about qiu and ivar because that’s awhile other story

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! Ana @qiubriel I had to Google your tag 😂 but THANKS 💖💕

[xadoheandterra]

Series: The Heir, The Reader, and Clay

Title: Run It Again Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Characters: Desmond Miles, Malik al-Sayf, Altair ibn La’Ahad, Al Mualim Pairings: Altair/Malik Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII Enabler: @kingbob2-0 @claire-the-dyke-dragon Tags: Time Travel, Dad Malik, Desmond Raised By Others, De-Aged Desmond, OC’s Galore, Feels, Emotional Trauma and Implied Abuse, Altair Is A Giant Mess Summary: They hadn’t found an answer yet, and Layla was impatient despite the promise of the Grey being timeless in its nature. She didn’t want to have to search for an answer that might never come–so she made another suggestion. Why not just change it? Why not counter the Isu influence on the Pieces of Eden where it counted, and counter what Juno inevitably did to the Eye in the Grand Temple?

It was all the push that Desmond needed to let himself be just that bit more selfish. So selfish he chose to be, and there was one moment where the Isu’s hold on the Pieces of Eden had a profound effect–the Levantine Brotherhood. Altair Ibn La’Ahad. Al Mualim. There was just one problem–Desmond was eight, a child, and didn’t remember dying.

Layla at least had his back, even if she was just a bit fashionably late.

Altair touched his hidden blade on his left arm reflexively. Al Mualim had gifted him back the blade silently, judgement lined every inch of the Master as he stared Altair down, and Altair stood not tall and proud but hunched and unsure in front of Al Mualim in that moment--unsure of his own place within the Brotherhood and unsure as to why he was being given the chance to get it back. Altair didn't fight the opportunity though, or question it beyond the brief realization that Al Mualim intended to send him out weaponless and informationless--and the realization that Altair would from this moment onward be at the whims of his Brothers whom all hated him.

There was so much red in Masyaf now, when all there used to be was blue and Altair didn't know how to feel about that--that so many of his Brothers scorned him and hated him and believed him to be the source of all that has gone wrong in their Brotherhood. Altair told himself he'd work silently and calmly--and then the first brother opened his mouth and all Altair felt was rage--rage at the boy who dare speak to him so, rage at the fact that he was being told to hunt down a traitor to the order and not being told anything more--rage that his Brothers clearly knew who had sided with the Templar dogs and yet they still didn't give him a name or bring him in themselves. No it fell to Altair's shoulders and Altair had to wander the village and listen to petty gossip and steal and do all of the things he hadn't needed to do since he was a Novice.

For a long, long while the rage was all Altair felt. Even after Al Mualim gave him back his sword--bloodied and freshly used to kill Masun--gave him back his hidden blade and told him to head to Damascus and find Tamir--and that he must first visit the Bureau and the Rafiq therein and seek approval for the kill. So Altair did as bade and sought out the Bureau and the Rafiq and truthfully Khaliq had nothing but kinds words to him that rang false and hollow when Altair heard them; like Al Mualim Khaliq had bid him to find the answer he sought as to Tamir's location and best route to do the deed itself--and that Altair was to not to ask after the Informants as to the answers for his questions. In turn Altair hunted down his target with the bare minimum information and everything he had gathered for himself before he Khaliq granted permission for Altair to kill Tamir. As blood then spilt Altair felt the world wash away into that hazy dream-state that always followed such high targets in the aftermath of the killing.

The ghost of Tamir spoke, and the things he whispered had burned the rage in Altair to newer heights. He called their Order a Brotherhood, claimed Altair a prideful child--Altair found himself aflame and eager to seek out the rest of these names the Master promised would free him from his shame. Perhaps they truly would, then, if they aimed to demean everything Altair had known since childhood into nothing but a mockery. Al Mualim aimed him, pointed him to targets, and Altair let his fury and injustice out upon them until he would be spent--and maybe it would quell the way his chest ached when Malik and Kadar did not emerge from the Temple; maybe it would ease the way his throat felt tight in his neck, his stomach bound up in his chest, as he changed the bandages on Malik's arm. Maybe it would stop the way his Brothers scorn itched beneath his skin, or the feel of a blade in his gut as he his held back and still and Al Mualim cries Justice.

Maybe killing these Nine would ease some of that which burned Altair, inside too. Perhaps that was all he was good for, anyway--to be the weapon aimed and fired by the Master; the killer and the blade for the cause of the Brotherhood and nothing else. Do not think, Altair--do not know, only act. Do as I say--

Altair touched the hidden blade again with his fingers and stared down at his weapons and shuddered. He did not want to be just the blade, the killer that everyone saw when they looked at him. Altair was smart and clever and so, so good at killing that it was no surprise that was all anyone saw of him--but his other talents were there, and often he wanted to hone them more than he wanted to be the blade at the behest of his Masters and yet--yet the blade was all anyone wanted of him. Then it turned against them they hated him and Altair--Altair had to close his eyes and force himself to breathe.

Al Mualim hadn't answered his questions, after that first death. He'd brushed aside his queries with sweet words that rang hollow--Altair knew too much, was too important, and that had provided him a head too large for his skill. Perhaps the Master was right. Perhaps he let the knowledge he'd been given, the fact that he'd been favored so publicly, get to his head and twist him. Perhaps this shame was good for him, but Altair couldn't see that. All he felt was the pain of it--of being different and other like he'd always been. Even as a child he'd been the strange one who either spoke too much or spoke too little--who stared and watched and couldn't help the blank gaze that would cross his face as he contemplated the colors and what they could mean. The way he knew who lied and who told truth and the way he would spill secrets he knew not where secrets--and Altair grated at the thought of it all as Justice, this punishment and debasement, but perhaps in some twisted way it really was.

There were so many colors and secrets bound to the twilight world of Masyaf; some days it left Altair breathless as others it left him baffled in trying to understand their meaning. The impressions in that twilight world were so faint and daunting that even now Altair wasn't sure if they were right. Not when so much of Masyaf bled red; it'd always been purples and blues and at least the blue-purples Altair could trust but all the red made him tense and wary and waspish when he had to interact with his Brothers. Or perhaps more accurately still his Masters, because wasn't the whole of the Brotherhood his Master at this point? Isn't that what Al Mualim had told him--he was beneath them, a blade for them, nothing more until his Nine were dead and gone and his soul freed from this torment--Altair touched his Hidden Blade and grounded himself as he bowed his head with his heavy thoughts.

Acre was the next destination; his target Garnier de Naplouse who supposedly ran the Knights Hospitalier. Jabal was kinder, by far, compared to anyone Altair had interacted with. He was short with his words, but he at least pointed Altair in the right direction. He didn't outright lie or present a second face, either, which Altair respected. He teased but his teasing wasn't cruel and for that Altair felt thankful, a bit hopeful. Jabal glowed bright and brilliant blue of safety and in Acre Altair found the chance to ease a bit of the tension. He wasn't forced to move, and move fast. He had the chance to take his time, to gather the information he needed before he moved into his target in the hospital--a target who sold men to a slaver and shipped his 'product' to Jerusalem, for all he claimed to heal them.

The amount of blood that covered everything had made Altair near sick; the way Garnier dressed was horrifying. He barely bothered to clean himself from each person he visited. The sick and illness of the place was permeable in the air and Altair wanted everything to be over as quickly as he could. He near welcomed the dream-haze of the kill--until the ghost of Garnier spoke and Altair felt--

Altair couldn't describe how he felt. It was wrong and he knew it was wrong, yet Garnier's conviction and the way he spoke of his victims was not--it shook Altair. He'd been spoken of that same way, hadn't he--a mad dog to be put down, a child to be freed from his burdens of mind--a loyal dog to his Master, like all of Garnier's puppet soldiers high on whatever drugs Garnier put into their system. Were they truly better off under his care--was it so wrong to desire to help even if that help led to such--such depravity? And what did that mean for Al Mualim who stood there and mocked and raised Altair up with each hand, the way he pushed Altair to better heights and then knocked him down with harshness that belied the kindness--the way Altair often felt ghosted by the Master and his failings to be just that level of good enough for long enough and--Altair felt so indebted--like those men--

For a brief moment Altair sought the Rafiq for answers; perhaps Jabal had something worthwhile to say, to ease the churning confusion in his mind--but Jabal wanted nothing of it and that safety, that blue calmness edged toward purple and red and Altair--Altair quit speaking as soon as Jabal lashed back and dismissed him. He'd forgotten himself in the friendly face, forgotten himself in his task--to each he was a blade and nothing more and for a moment Altair allowed himself to be tricked to thinking otherwise. As soon as he pulled himself back, Jabal returned to being friendly and kind and safe and Altair--Altair just wanted to be done with Acre and gone.

Al Mualim had answers; he spoke kindly when compared to their last conversation--a better mood, Altair figured. Perhaps last time had been at a poor moment, perhaps news had reached Al Mualim and Altair had merely chosen the wrong thing to say at the wrong time. Now the Master drew Altair in to his study, dismissed the Scholars who worked with him through books and tomes, and settled Altair down until he was here. The Master recognized the way Altair wavered, a little bit elsewhere and not all present, and worked accordingly until Altair came back from wherever he drifted in his confusion. Until Altair sat with blade in hand and fingers pressed against it, gaze down and inward while the Master moved about the room and worked and Altair thought and--Altair breathed slow and steady.

"I do not understand," the words were finally spoken into the air, and Altair did not feel better for them.

"Tell me what you are having trouble with," Al Mualim sat his book aside and placed his elbows onto the table as he looked at Altair from over his hands--ever patient, his Mentor. Altair pressed fingers against the blade to keep him here, close enough to feel the bite of the edge, but far enough to not hurt himself.

"The men in the hospital, Garnier's victims--" Altair hated to think of that wretched place, the smell of blood and death and decay--the way illness soaked the very floors and how utterly unclean everything felt. Yet those men still they near worshipped the ground Garnier walked on--and so many of his victims whispered words of thanks even as they were butchered. They weren't rich or well liked people but they were still people, those of the streets and the unknindness of the world.

(Altair, too, whispered thanks as he was broken down and made back up each time he failed a task; thanks to the Master for taking pity on him and teaching him and bettering him and the parallels--)

Al Mualim sighed, heavy indeed as he leaned back in his chair and Altair raised his gaze to his Master--he took in the purplish-blue hue of the man before he blinked away the twilight world and stared at the drawn and thinness to Al Mualim's face as he spoke, "This is my fault."

"How is this your fault?"

Al Mualim ran his hands over his face before he got to his feet and headed toward the door to the study. He spoke quietly, too quiet for Altair to hear before he stepped back into the room and settled himself back down in his chair. He answered, "I thought it best to keep such unpleasantness of the world from you for a time--and realized how I have failed you in doing so only too late." The door opened and one of the Scholars entered with tea, set the cups and pots down and quickly bowed out.

"What unpleasantness?" Altair asked as Al Mualim poured a cup of tea and then offered it. Altair didn't want to pull his fingers from the blade, from his steadying touch and yet the Master would expect Altair to take the drink. Altair reached out and clasped the cup tight between his fingers and stared down at the tea and did not look to the Master, did not look at his Mentor as he struggled to piece together what unpleasantness Al Mualim had supposedly kept from him. There was plenty of unpleasantness to the world--what new danger that Altair had been unaware of had he missed?

"It is the way of the world," Al Mualim said, words soft and gentle that Altair tilted his head as he listened, bird-like in curiosity, "that leaders will seek to control their subjects by any means necessary--it is what makes them leaders, in the end. Oftentimes it starts with words or deeds, a way to draw those to them. Kindness and softness to their touch--and then those methods begin to fail, so they seek baser results. Coin for bribes or favors, threats against loved ones and livelihoods, and all kinds of cruel trickery."

Altair frowned and bowed his head and watched the way the tea churned in his cup. He knew of these actions; he'd thought of such things before when he contemplated the Creed and the fallacy that even the Assassin's fell into. His grip on the tea was tight, strong enough that he could hear the leather of his gloves creak. He still didn't know what Al Mualim meant about unpleasantness of the world--about what was kept from him. What sort of secrets had he not been privy to like every other person he'd ever met--what social more had Altair missed this chance that Al Mualim decided better to not correct him on?

"Herbs, Altair," Al Mualim spoke, words kind in their unkindness, "can be used in such interesting ways." Altair knew this; knew of how they used poppy to aide in healing, the way it twisted the mind and changed how one thought. He knew the way herbs could bend things into a strangeness that was no other--he'd seen the responses on it. "So easy it is to slip something new into another's drink, or their incense set to burn--all the while the masses unaware of the change. In fact many, if given leave of their senses long enough, become enslaved to it--to the feeling that it provides them, to the escape from their harsh realities...to peace."

Altair ducked his head, mumbled his response of, "He drugged them?" with half-surprise, half lack of it because he knew--he knew there were herbs involved and he knew the way they were used was wrong somehow but he couldn't pin it until Al Mualim's offhand comment and it burned at him, then. Were they willing victims, complicit in their poisonings as they desired more and more of this addictive substance that they knew they were given--or had they no knowledge of what Naplouse had done, no awareness as to what they now found themselves in need of except conflating that need with their vaunted savior? "Poisoned, them?" Altair continued, sick with the thought that those poor souls had no knowledge of what Naplouse had done.

Al Mualim settled his teacup down, eyes sharp as they stared at Altair who paled at the thought--drugged, poisoned, unknowingly imbibing a substance that he could not name and did not know the effects of--it terrified him. "Our enemies often accuse me of the same," Al Mualim said, eventually, and Altair near dropped his cup in surprise. "This surprises you, Altair?"

"I--you wouldn't--" Altair glanced between the cup and his Master, throat tight. Had he--

"This tea is not drugged," Al Mualim said, a faint smile to his lips. "Worry not--but that is what they would claim of me." Altair pulled his hands from his cup, the words that is what they would claim of me circling around with thoughts of poison and a leave of ones senses. He felt ill and sick; he knew there were depths men strove to for control--knew there were depths people fell too--but this was not something he ever thought possible and to be used upon someone such as Naplouse's victims--

(--upon himself--)

"They would claim I hold a garden of hedonistic pleasures, of women and wine and herbs to make you complicit in what I wish to have of you," Al Mualim said. "The truth of it matters little to them in their claims."

"Is it peace they seek, then?" Altair asked, gaze once more focused on Al Mualim. "With--with herbs and bribes and such extortion?"

Al Mualim hummed, thoughtful, and settled himself back into his seat as he thought. "Perhaps, after some fashion, it is a peace they seek--"

Altair jolted; perhaps they could be educated. He leaned forward, eager as he said, "Then if we told them--"

"--but it is not a peace we agree with, Altair," Al Mualim interrupted, words suddenly sharp. "If they were to believe we too sought a peaceful resolution then we could not comfortably perform the acts we need to."

Altair backed down, chastised, head bowed in thought, before he nodded once in understanding.

"Good. Now, if that is all, you may go." Al Mualim waved his hand, and Altair got to his feet quietly.

Altair raised his hand to the sky as he stared at the sun from the rooftops of Jerusalem; he was exhausted. Between his mind which wanted to continue to overturn the idea that these Templars they fought again sought peace--albeit in a way that really was unfavorable to the people--and the idea that if they could be educated then perhaps there would not need be violence or war; his body was tired, run ragged over the past few weeks with nonstop work and little answers and little sleep. There were those who thought Altair had little in the way of needs; sleep was a big need that Altair had functionally little of, and he doubted he'd get a chance for more until his Nine were done.

With a deep and heavy breath Altair pushed himself onward toward the rooftop of the new Bureau--Al Mualim had given him the location as an afterthought, something about the Apothecary no longer being a viable location. Altair wasn't fully abreast of the issue--he wasn't really an Assassin any longer for all the Master kept saying he gained a rank back--a rank of what always nagged at Altair. A rank of respect or a rank of skill or some other unidentifiable rank that Altair hadn't been aware of? He merely knew that truthfully he wasn't an Assassin, he was a tool and a killer yes, but an Assassin he wasn't any longer. The Master had made that clear after he'd woken him from his faked death.

The sigil of the Brotherhood was a fairly good indicator that Altair had the proper place; the latticework that covered the garden when the guards were actively hunting within the city was opened for ease of entrance, too. Altair crouched at the lip of the roof, ready to tumble down and get on with this farce of an assignment when he heard the voices--heard Malik.

"--and make sure the tea isn't scalding!" Malik had called. "He does not need another ache upon the one with his head, Jawad!"

"Yes, Dai!"

Al Mualim had not told Altair that this was were he sent Malik. He had not told Altair that Malik held position at a Bureau now, that he had Novices to care for and look after, that he put Malik to work in the most dangerous city with only one arm and Novices--but it felt good, too, to hear Malik's voice. Altair dropped from his crouch to sit on the edge and leaned forward, hands pressed to balance him. He closed his eyes and listened.

"Hush," Malik's words were soft, kind and gentle as he spoke. "This is the coolest place in the whole Bureau, child. The lighting here will help. Now lay down--no, keep the cloth over your eyes, it will help. That's better. Jawad will be back with the tea soon--just rest for now. It will get better." Malik shuffled about, and there was something soft and childish and faint, a whine or words that Altair could not quite make out but that was fine--he wasn't interested in some child as he was in Malik. "I will be right here, I promise. Just rest. Let the incense and the quiet do its work."

Malik went quiet after that; the only sound soft shuffling and the sound of paper moving. A door opened and presumably the tea Malik called for had been brought--but Malik was quiet and the door closed again and it was back to soft sounds of shuffling and paper moving. Altair opened his eyes and felt himself fully relax, a small smile played at the corners of his lips. Malik was well, bossing around Novices and tending to them with the grace of a mother cat. A bit of the stress left Altair at the thought; this was Malik in his element. This was where he was always meant to be.

It was good; Altair stretched and dropped from the ceiling. He wanted to slip into that twilight world and see all of Malik's colors--to be comforted in them--but the walls would only hinder him and if the Bureau was as dark as Malik implied then it'd be near worthless to even try.

"Mm?" Malik hummed, and Altair stilled as he moved forward. "I thought I told you to close your eyes, Desmond."

"I aaaaam," the plain whine of a child; Altair blinked and held himself still. There should be no Novices that young at a Bureau. "S'just bright. An loud."

"Then I will tell them to quiet," Malik said, "but you should be resting. Or does your head feel better already?"

"Nnooo?"

"Then rest."

Altair stood stock still, eyes wide beneath the cowl of his hood; he could catch the faint scent of the incense, familiar in the way that he often had it burned at his bedside table when his eyes refused to work because the twilight world was too strong and it made everything ache. It was out of character, but Altair hesitated. He hesitated to enter the room because then he would see Malik--he would speak to Malik and the last they had seen one another Malik had been whole and his brother alive and they'd been fighting. His fist clenched at his sides and he angled his gaze toward the ground. Were they still fighting? Altair didn't know. He didn't even know why Malik was upset, really. It had all seemed to work perfectly natural to Altair--so why had Malik gotten so upset about everything?

It took a second longer, the child muttered something but Altair was too far in his head to hear it--and the soft reply of Malik was nothing more than sweet sounds and less words to the scrambled mind of Masyaf's Eagle until Altair shook himself free of his circling thoughts and pushed himself forward into the Bureau.

It was dark; Altair knew it would be as Malik had referenced so. The incense burned lightly on the counter, but the rest of the room was rather bare. Books lined the walls and Malik was thumbing through them, categorizing or organizing Altair couldn't quite tell in the dark. He moved quickly to the counter but saw no sign of the child he heard Malik speaking with--perhaps they had snuck their way back inside the house proper, through the door. It didn't matter, though, because here was Malik, as whole as he could be dressed in rich black and fulfilling a role Altair had only dreamed of.

Altair stepped up to the edge and breathed, and without thought the words came spilling from him were a soft, "Safety and peace, Malik."

Malik's back stiffened and Altair took a quick step back as he remembered his own silent footsteps and the fact that they were fighting only a second too late. He held his breath as Malik turned, eyes narrowed and words sharp yet quiet as he said quite vehemently, "Your presence here deprives me of both." Altair stilled, ducked his head, and waited in silence. A moment later Malik sighed, heavy, and said a short, "What do you want?"

Altair floundered; what did he want? He wanted Malik to not be angry with him, but there was a month of time lost between them in the way of that. There was an arm and Kadar in the way of that. He breathed out a slow and steady breath and thought of his Nine--he didn't want his Nine, he didn't care about the ranks or the popularity or Al Mualim's favor. He wanted Malik but he couldn't have that comforting comradery. Not now.

"Al Mualim has--" Altair started and then stopped when Malik held his hand up, eyes narrowed in Altair's direction. For a second Altair drifted, feet shuffled as he swayed unsure of what he said that upset Malik now.

"You have been sent on a task to redeem yourself, is that what you are about to tell me?" Malik asked, words biting. "I do not care for the story. Be out with your task or leave. I do not have time to pander to your ego." Altair opened his mouth to speak again when Malik raised his hand and pressed his lips together. "You will speak of only your task?" Altair nodded once, slowly. "Then speak."

"I am here to kill a man named Talal," Altair said, voice even and calm despite the fact that his heart rabbited in his chest and his palms felt sweaty and his stomach was up in his throat--

"And?" Malik gestured, looked around. "What information have you brought me, then? What news of this Talal that you have sought out? Come, surely you remember?" Altair opened his mouth, then closed it when he realized he thought better of the choices. Malik pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered a short, "Of course not," and turned from the counter. Altair watched him focus on the books, posture tense as he uttered a short, "It is your duty to find and kill this man, Altair. I am not to house all the answers."

Altair knew this; he faced this with the others in Acre and Damascus and--he'd forgotten when he heard Malik's voice. Altair ducked his head and stepped back as he realized there would be no help here. The fighting between them, the gap of time between them--Altair had fooled himself into thinking that seeing Malik would make things make sense again.

"If you will not help me I will be on my way," Altair said, words short and hands clenched at his side.

"I did not say I would not help," Malik snapped out and Altair paused as he moved to leave. Malik didn't look at him, though, and Altair felt all the more confused about it. Was Malik so upset with Altair that even seeing his face made the other sick? Altair blinked, rapidly, to fight the way his eyes wanted to water. He hadn't cried since he was a child and he wasn't about to start now. "There are three places where information about your target may be found. South in the markets between the Muslim and Jewish districts; north near the mosque in this district; east, in front of St Anne's Church near the Bab Ariha gate."

Altair hummed a response, not sure what to say in this moment. Thanks should be enough, but with the tenseness to Malik's shoulders and the way he refused to look at him Altair decided not speaking was the far better option. He shifted, angled to leave.

"The garden is open to you," Malik said, well aware what the slight scuff of Altair's boots on the ground meant. "If you need food or water ask and I will have Jawad bring you something."

Without another word Altair left and closed himself off once more.

Malik breathed out, shaky and unsure just what had happened, heart clenched like a vice and the rest of him so damn cold. He'd spoke to a ghost; a dead man had walked into his Bureau safe as can be, spoke words to him with a face that was not his and a voice that wanted to spear Malik's heart--with a swagger that hurt to see--and Malik wasn't sure what to make of it other than--Altair was dead. Malik both wanted to drink in the form and face of someone gone from this world--the familiar scar across his lips, the way his eyes were honeyed and warm without that second sight, the missing finger of his left hand--how the robes clung to him like a second skin--and he wanted to scream because how dare they? How dare they make him relieve the death of a man who did not deserve it?

"Papa?" Desmond mumbled and Malik shuttered his thoughts, wiped at the tears in his eyes, and quickly turned and crouched down. Desmond peered up at him with the reflective eyes of his second sight and Malik wanted to wince at it--he'd told the boy the rest his eyes. This would not help his aching head Malik knew. "Why sad?"

Malik swallowed, and then settled himself on the floor behind counter and reached out to pet Desmond's head with his right hand. He readjusted the moist cloth so that it covered Desmond's eyes again as he said softly, "A ghost, Desmond."

"S'not a ghost," Desmond pouted; his head must feel better, Malik noted, because he was more lively now and less churlish. "He was sad too."

Malik breathed out slowly and let the contradiction lie because it made little sense. Altair had been put to blade by Al Mualim himself; Kareem had said so and Kareem had little reason to lie to Malik's face about such matters. The others in Masyaf spoke about it--about how public it was. The way some Brothers had chance to hold Altair down and took joy in it--joy in how he struggled, joy in the sight of the blade parting flesh--it made Malik sick. Altair should right and truly be dead after that and if he wasn't--if he wasn't it meant he took Al Mualim's blade and survived and Al Mualim had told nobody the specifics. Which meant that truly was Altair and not a brother with a similar face and a similar voice to trick Malik's mind. It meant Malik grieved a man who lived and did not--did not dare come to see him?

Could Altair even have come to see Malik? Malik didn't know the man's condition. He seemed fit, seemed well, despite the actions that should have killed him. He was quieter, certainly. Altair had pensive moments where his voice failed him and he would speak less on things and in this moment it seemed that. He'd closed off, too, toward the end--focused, accepting. Malik's hand shook as he remembered offering the garden and nothing more and he thought--he breathed out slow and steady.

"Not a ghost, child?" Malik asked, words light.

"Mm," Desmond hummed. "He's sad an' confused an' there's so much much," Desmond's words were jumbled and quick and he couldn't seem to get out what he wanted to say so he gestured large with his arms until they hit Malik in the stomach lightly, "'bout you."

"Me?" Malik blinked, surprised--but then should he have been? Altair and he had been fighting, certainly, because Altair was an ass who could not see his head for his face--but that couldn't have been it. Not with how long it took the man to come down from the roof and enter into the building. Malik had honestly thought it'd been Faheem again, come to harass him and he'd been ready to throw the man out on his ear if need to.

Instead the man to walk through his door had been a ghost and Malik too struck dumb by it to do anything more than--than be a bitter asshole at the reminder. Malik sighed heavily and said a soft, "I was told he died."

"Oh." Desmond pushed the cloth off his face and peered up at Malik with tired eyes. "M sorry? But. He's not dead."

"No," Malik agreed, "he is most certainly not." Malik peered down at Desmond, and then lightly tapped the child on the nose and watched the way Desmond's face scrunched up at the gesture. "How is your head?"

"Um. Better."

The empty cup of tea rested in the corner of the little nook Malik had put together for Desmond when his head started to hurt. He gestured to the cup with a raised brow, "The tea help?" Desmond hummed, but didn't nod his head. Not perfect, then. "Good. Back inside for you, then, but only to bed." For a moment he got a churlish look in response that Malik could only smile at. "None of that now, Desmond. My friend will be quick and return soon--you said he was bright. I do not want you to upset your head any more than it is. The bedroom should be dim, and I will make sure some incense is there for you."

Desmond huffed, mumbled a faint, "Fiiiiine," and wrapped himself in the blankets Malik had used to create the nest for him. He looked rather cute all bundled up in cloth with only a tuft of his curly hair peeking out and gold-bright eyes squinting at the world. Malik placed the cloth back on top of Desmond's head and escorted him to the door with a faint chuckle, only pause when Desmond stopped walking to look up at Malik with a frown. "Talk to him, papa?"

Malik paused, looked at Desmond. "I will try," he said in response; and he would, but sometimes talking to Altair was like talking to brick--impossible. Desmond nodded, then groaned at the action, and slipped through the door back into the house proper.

[wayfaringmd]

Yesterday my coworkers and I sat around the lunch table and watched George Floyd be murdered. Now I’ve seen videos of killings before—Ahmaud Arbery. Philando Castille. Eric Garner. Tamir Rice—and in the past I have kept my feelings silent.

I would watch these videos and be stirred to the core, but a little voice would tell me to keep my social media presence lighthearted. Don’t get all “political”. I saw plenty of people speaking out and thought it wasn’t necessary for me to add to their voices. I’d watch these videos and read the reports and would tell myself it was ok to wait and form an opinion later when all the “facts” were in instead of going with my gut and airing my disgust and anger and sadness.

But this video won’t leave me alone. I couldn’t sleep last night because George Floyd’s gray, silent face haunted me. I tried to understand what could possibly possess a man to kill a calm, restrained man and to look on smugly as that man cried out for his mama and gasped for breath. The only answer is evil. Evil disregards the value of human life. But evil is not just in the murderer. It’s in the man who stood idly by and let it happen. It’s in the system that continues to let these things happen. And it’s got a piece of me if I refuse to speak up against it.

In my mind I’ve always been anti-racism. I’ve tried to work on identifying and quashing the racist ideas in my head that my culture has told me were normal. Its a process, and I haven’t always done it right or said the right things and I’m sure I’ve offended someone in the past. But I still like to think of myself as Not-A-Racist™ . But if equality (like my faith) only exists in my mind and not in my actions and words, can I really say I believe in it?

As a physician I have attended many code blues and have helped offer comfort to hospice patients in their final hours. I understand what air hunger looks like. I can only begin to imagine what it feels like. How terrifying it must have been for Floyd.

As a foster parent, a precious little black boy has been entrusted to my care. He calls me mama and he cracks me up. He’s smart and handsome and loving and full of energy. The thought of something like this happening to him one day sickens and terrifies me. As I teach him how to handle his emotions I can’t help but worry about what might happen to him one day if he’s not in complete control of himself. What will I tell him if he’s still with me in 10 years? Comply so you’ll live? George Floyd was restrained, pleading for breath, and eventually quiet and completely still, yet the cop wouldn’t get off his neck. Silence didn’t save his life. And our collective silence won’t save any future lives.

As a Christian, I know that all humans are made in the image of God. That image gives all of us value, and our value is not decreased by our sins or even our disbelief. Nothing any of us could do or say makes us less precious to our Heavenly Father. Why can’t we look at each other and see the Father’s image? Think what it would change. Racism would be gone. Violence, oppression, inequality, injustice, all gone.

This post won’t make much impact. In the grand scheme of things, it does very little to make the system better. But at least it will let others around me know where I stand. I won’t be party to continued apathy, silence, and so-called neutrality. Hopefully this won’t be one solitary intense post. My intention is for it to be the beginning of something permanent.

White friends, join me in listening to your black friends. Let us hear their experiences and put ourselves in their shoes. Let us recognize our privilege and use it for good. Let us not sit quietly when we hear racist jokes and comments. Let us stand beside our black and brown friends and collaborate with them to come up with solutions to end this nonsense.

Black friends, help us white folks. Have difficult conversations with us. Expose our prejudices in love and teach us the truth. The only way this mess can be fixed is if all of us who are tired of the racism become intentional about teaching our friends and children how to value other people. We have to do better. We just have to.

“For the Lord will not forsake his people; he will not abandon his heritage; for justice will return to the righteous, and all the upright in heart will follow it. Who rises up for me against the wicked? Who stands up for me against evildoers?

[...] Can wicked rulers be allied with you, those who frame injustice by statute? They band together against the life of the righteous and condemn the innocent to death. But the Lord has become my stronghold, and my God the rock of my refuge. He will bring back on them their iniquity and wipe them out for their wickedness; the Lord our God will wipe them out.”

‭‭Psalm‬ ‭94:14-16, 20-23‬ ‭ESV‬‬

[smiling-grouch]

Photos from Portland, Oregon.

The Multnomah County Justice Center, June 24, 2020.

The Justice Center (heretofore “JC”) has been the main focal point of the BLM protests. The tagging you see here has been painted over and subsequently freshly tagged. It was set on fire the first night of protests which is why it was boarded up. At one point in time it was fenced off, but the protestors dubbed it “The Sacred Fence” since even touching the fence would quite literally spark a violent onslaught of teargas and “non-lethal” rubber bullets from the police. Most recently the JC was the site in which 26yo old Donovan LaBella was shot in the head with “nonlethal” ammunition by a Federal Officer in which he had to have emergency surgery to repair his skull and as of this moment lies in the hospital in critical condition.

2. Downtown Portland’s Apple Store. June 24, 2020.

On the first day of the George Floyd protests, the Apple store and the Louis Vitton store were the target of the pent up anger and pain from protesters. The Apple Store has become the unofficial memorial for Black Lives lost to police violence. I am unsure if it’s been painted over yet.

3) Elk Statue. June 24th, 2020. David P. Thompson Fountain, or colloquially the “Elk Statue”, is located near the JC which can be seen in the background to the right in the photo. It is a great landmark and is placed between two park blocks: Chapman Square and Lowsdale Square (which were also the sites for the 99% Occupation Movement in 2011). The fountain is seen as non-offensive to my knowledge, but its proximity to the JC means it gets vandalized during protests and movements. It’s also the source of many protest selfies.

4) Elk Statue, July 14, 2020. A few days prior to this photo, protesters set a massive fire in the wells of the fountain (which were meant to water horses), causing noticeable damage to the granite. The Elk statue itself was removed for cleaning and to protect it from risk of being toppled or destroyed. In this photo I blurred out the faces of two protesters while a separate march happens in the background from a group that is widely criticized by the larger BLM movement for a variety of reasons.

So what do we make of this? Why do people loot? People in extreme pain who have been ignored or told to be quiet for a long, long time have different ways of expressing that pain, and one way is property destruction because it gets attention. Looting is similar and is the opportunistic moment for people to finally get the status symbols that have been waved above their heads all their lives. It is quite literally their only change to own high class items, and in the chaos, they take their opportunity.

I do not condone looting or property damage, but I get why it happens. Buildings can be rebuilt. Stores have insurance. Lives can not be resurrected to what they once were. Damage might cost money, but money can not bring George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, and thousands of others back.

The fact that a US state is occupied by FEDERAL TROOPS should be a national concern.

I know I have a lot of young followers, and I will say now: This is scary. I am an adult, and I am also scared. There is not much you can do as a kid or even as a teen, and that’s okay, but please, if you can do anything, even if it’s just art to express support for BLM or just reading and educating yourselves, please do it. If you’re going to be 18 come November, please for the love of yourself, your neighbor, and your friends, register to vote and vote in every election, even the non-presidential ones. Those are often the most important since local laws, leaders, judges, and budgets are decided then!

You are young and full of so much beautiful potential, and I see so much good from your generation already. I am proud of you, even if y’all dunk on me for being a Millenial. It hurts because it’s true, but hopefully by the time you’re my age, we’ll have left you in a better spot.

If you have questions, send them to me and I’ll answer as best I can. No promises, but I’ll try.

Keep learning. Keep loving. And keep being you.