#trying to work out how to get from Birmingham new street to the church without it taking an hour + has been tricky

[georgia-stanway]

It's my cousin's wedding on Saturday so it's going to be a really long day and I almost certainly will not be up to going to the football on Sunday but forest women play Everton in the cup and I kinda really want to go

[mutenized]

The Choice Bit of Calico (Chapter One)

Ship: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Characters: Thomas Shelby, Billy Kimber, Ada Shelby, Polly Shelby, Finn Shelby, Arthur Shelby, John Shelby, mentions of Freddie Thorne

Warning(s): mentions of blood, war, and violence (obviously), maybe a slow burn?, forbidden romance, inner conflict, heartache, rebellion. Intended smut. In this chapter there is a bit of time skipping; only 3 times I believe.

A/N: Choice Bit of Calico was slang in the 1920s for a desirable woman. The prologue to this series can be found HERE. HAHA two chapters in one sitting AND posting it before the original post dates? WOAAHHH. Also this one’s a long one so buckle up.

Synopsis: You are the sibling of Billy Kimber. Living with him in London, you heard of nursing classes offered at a church in Birmingham near where you and your older brother were born. It was during World War I and you wanted to do something to help the soldiers from your country as well as the allied countries. Living in your childhood home until you were sent back to London to work at the Veteran’s Hospital, you never forgot about the firey brunette who wanted to do the same as you. Keeping in touch, you both wrote letters back and forth until one fateful day you find yourself back in Birmingham, bags in hand, to take care of an ailing family member. Who knew the moment you got off the train your whole life would change?

Words: 2594

MASTERLIST

A month had passed since you arrived in Birmingham, three weeks since you started the nursing classes at the church, and two weeks since you bonded with the witty yet quick thinking brunette in the class whom you found out was named Ada. You had been partnered to evaluate one another’s quick first aid techniques when it all sparked. Taking suggestions from one another at a pub on the side of town your brother warned you to stay away from turned into meeting her younger brother Finn and Aunt Polly who lived on Watery Lane which evolved into having dinners with the three of them every Wednesday, drinks every Saturday, and breakfast every Sunday.

Ada’s family soon became your own, learning of her three brothers who were over in Europe; the oldest in the Ottoman Empire, the second oldest in France, and the last stationed in a location that was to be kept top secret. When no letters arrived in the post, you were there for the distressed duo. Whether it was help around the house as they try to find out from people in their inner circles if there were any reports of the three men to infirmaries or morgues or even keep the news away from little Finn who was only seven years of age. You found that he enjoyed helping you around in the gardens on nice days and telling you about his favorite types of horses. Though you knew nothing of the animal other than the fact they can be used in racing and that they were being overworked in London for carriage rides though cars were becoming more readily available, you listened to him jammer on and on until he became too hungry or tired to continue.

You hoped for the three of them that the three men over at war would come home safely. For the first time in ages, you prayed.

Two more months passed, and you were three months into the nursing class. Nearing the ending of the courses, it had been decided by the instructor, a nurse at one of the largest hospitals in the south, that you and Ada were both not fit for in field work but, due to both of your wonderful communication skills, that working with veterans that were in rehabilitation or facing treatments for their injuries was the best choice. Seeing that the closest veteran’s hospital was back in London, you faced conflict. Continue living in Birmingham and risk Billy finding out you aren’t finding any work in the medical field but rather conversing and being social with those you grew close to, which would result in him dragging you back to London under his supervision, or take the job that was offered to you at Imperial Order Of the Daughters Of The Empire Hospital and live on your own until the war was over and see what the future held. 

Choosing to go back to London on your own accord was heartbreaking to you, it was like the last day of primary school before you were homeschooled by the tutor your brother hired. You felt as if you would never see Ada or her family again as well as the other friends you had made. On the last night before your departure, Polly had invited you over for drinks with her and Ada. Finn was at a friend’s house for the night which left the lot of you free to drink without worrying about being too loud or filtering your stories in case Finn decided to play spy in the middle of the night. With your trunk sitting by the front entrance as well as the suitcase you had brought with you, you sat around the round table with the two other women you had become so close to. They had already given you a present for good luck. A pristine nurse uniform that Polly had seen a usual at the pub’s wife wear one day as they crossed paths on the street laid unfolded on the table as the three of them admired the soon-to-be-fleeting cleanliness of it. Ada, on the other hand, had gifted you a golden locket with a photo of the two of you that a man had taken while testing out the newest camera to come out. That day you and Ada, drunk off your asses, tried to sit as still as you could as the camera process as slow as a snail. “I remember we went from The Garrison into that damned parlor. It was a fuckin’ shame we went there first. Imagine all of the drunken shopping we would’ve done.” Ada jabbed, causing you to laugh so hard you spilt your drink all over you robe.

That night, words of advice, stories of family and friends, and songs were sung until your eyes couldn’t stay open anymore. The next thing you could remember was Polly waking you up, Finn on her side with tears in his eyes. “This one was picked up this morning and wants to go with ya’ to London.” Polly smiled sullenly, your eyes softening from the groggy, hungover state they were into something more awake and less irritated. Your heart broke as you saw tears on the boy’s cheeks.

“Oh Finn, you know I’d love to take you and Pol and Ada to London with me,” You began, thumb brushing off the tears that rested on his cheeks, “But I can’t take you three, which breaks my heart. But, with you here with them, I know you’re going to protect them, right?” With a sad nod, Finn fell into your chest as he cuddles up into you one last time. It was hard saying goodbye to them, but Finn’s sadness really made the decision settle in. Pressing a kiss to the boy who you considered your little brother’s forehead, you pick him up and begin to say goodbye to Polly and Ada, sad smiles all around as you grab your trunk and suitcase. A honk sounded which signaled your exit, a final wave as you loaded your items into the car’s backseat before joining the driver in the front. “To the trains please.” You spoke, settling into the seat though it was a short ride.

4 years passed, many patients that you had helped were back finding their ways through their daily life once again. Within those four years you had always kept in touch with Ada and Polly, writing letters back and forth about what has gone on in each other’s lives. One day, a letter came for you, Ada’s flourish on the envelope. The note read:

“(Y/N),

Obviously, you’ve heard that the war’s over, thank fucking God (I don’t think I would have lasted if it went on for any longer). With that, all three brothers are home and the chaos has picked up right where it was left off. Arthur is being a dumbass, Thomas is being a hard-ass, and John is being a jackass.

I miss having you here, you’re my last hope of sanity in all honesty. I think you were Polly’s as well, having seen that I’ve been sneaking out to visit Freddie Thorne. Oh, (Y/N), I have so much I need to tell you but so little I can write without having Thomas go through my shit. Let’s hope this gets to you soon, I don’t think I’ll last in this god forsaken house one last minute with the way the ass trio continues to act.

Will you come visit soon? Did they offer you a job?

Please write back soon, it’s the only thing I look forward to now,

Ada”

Laughing at the thought of stubborn Ada dealing with her brothers, you looked around your London apartment and sighed. You had notified your brother that you were moving back to Birmingham to help with the veterans down in Small Heath. Under the guise of the hospital having a volunteer program being funded, Billy handed you over the keys before sending you out of his office. “Anything else? The races are starting soon, and this damn horse keeps fucking winning.” He had grumbled causing you to roll your eyes and head back to your own apartment to pack. Now, with the letter in your hand and the key in your jacket pocket as well as a train ticket, you grinned widely. Ada always found joy in surprises, though they were always small ones like when you sent her imported cigarettes for her birthday.

In the matter of twenty-four hours you went from living in London with a well-paying job and new experiences to living in Small Heath, Birmingham with no job, a house, and one family who cared for you. Gazing out the window of the cab you caught, you pay him the pounds before stepping out. “How much for you to help me bring the trunks inside?” You inquire, the man letting out a solid laugh, much to your misery. “Oi, I drive a cab, not own a fuckin’ moving company. Should have thought of getting one.” He spat, helping you take out the trunks you packed before speeding off. Cursing him under your breath, you used all the strength you could muster to drag the heavy trunks into the foyer and leaving them there. No way were you getting those things upstairs. Not tonight, at least. You had more important things to tend to, anyways. Like visiting Polly and Ada, hopefully. You prayed that they were at the house in Watery Lane and not out dealing with some ‘family matters’ as Ada would explain.

Finding the trunk that you had packed with clothes and shoes, you pulled out the outfit you had planned for surprising the duo. Pulling out the cornflower blue silk chiffon dress, you paired them with the white button up shoes that a soldier’s wife had gifted you for saving his life when he randomly fell ill. Tucking the locket Ada had gifted you all those years ago into the top of your dress, you quickly fixed the pattern curls of your hair before grabbing the golden compact you had carried always and key to your house. Setting down the roads as the sun was beginning to set, you noticed the abundance of men who bore flat caps that had tip’s that, when the light caught it correctly, gleamed in the light whose appearances multiplied in number the closer you drew to the house of Polly. Worry settled in but you didn’t let it phase your emotions physically.

The nerves in your stomach seemed to spread as you felt eyes on you when you walked up the steps to the house you frequented not so long ago. Either way, you knocked at the door hard enough it was heard and took a step back. Rolling on the balls of your feet, you waited for the door to open and when it did? You were met with a man who was slightly taller than you with a freckled face and striking blue eyes. Before either of you could even speak, you heard the sound of running feet across the wooden floors before seeing a taller, spritelier, Finn.

“(Y/N)! You’re back! When did you come back!?” The now eleven-year-old inquired, a grin on your face. The man in front of you seemed confused, but still never took his calculating gaze off of you. “I came in this afternoon! I’m movin’ back down to my house, remember when you and Ada came over and had a picnic in the parlor?” You grinned, the boy nodding furiously before turning to the group that had formed at the door.

“Arthur, Tommy, John! This is (Y/N), Ada’s friend! They met at those nursing classes Ada took four years ago!” Finn informed the brothers, realization coming across their face.

“(Y/N), nice to meet ya’. ‘m John, that tall, lanky one is Arthur, and the statue here is Thomas, call ‘im Tommy though. Thomas is too formal for ‘im.” The youngest out of the three, John, spoke with a smirk on his face. Moving aside, the men let you in before the eldest, Arthur, spoke up.

“So what brings ya’ back to Small Heath? Can’t be better from where you’re comin’ from.” A chuckle left his lips as you sat down at the kitchen table comfortably, too comfortable for the middle brother, Tommy’s, liking. “You know you should wait for Polly before you sit. It’s a bit rude.” His gravelly voice rang in your head and his piercing blue eyes stared into yours. You could tell he was waiting for you to submit. That wasn’t going to happen, that’s for sure.

“Oh, I’m moving back from London. Worked at Imperial Order Of the Daughters Of The Empire Hospital until about three days ago. Decided to move back here since I feel more at home here. Like seeing the horses on the street being taken care of rather than being beat down for not being fast enough at the carriage rides, you know?” You start out, focusing your gaze on Arthur who settled in his seat across from you before turning to Tommy.

“Would you like to see my correspondence with Pol, as well, Tommy? I don’t carry her notes on me but I do have them back at my house here in Small Heath. If you’d want to take a stroll with a lowly Londoner, then let it happen. Just know the days the two of them hadn’t heard anything from you lot I was here, helping around the house and with Finn,” pausing, you look between the three who seem taken aback that you didn’t crush under the gaze of Tommy who was now glaring daggers at you, “Not to say your lack or correspondence is directly your fault, but they worried. They were scared you had died and didn’t want Finn to hear the discussions of phoning local morgues that received army men’s bodies.”

Before Tommy could retort, a gasp from the front door was heard. Polly. Grinning wide, you instantly shot up from the chair you relaxed in and made your way to engulf the woman in a tight hug. With tears in your eyes, you pulled back to look over the woman with a smile. “(Y/N), what are you doing here!? I…I’m fuckin’ speechless. Does Ada know you’re here? Are you just visiting?” Her questions continued on just as Finn’s did in which you answered them all with the brightest, happiest tone in your voice. It wasn’t until her eyes locked with an annoyed Thomas that she realized she wasn’t there to greet her and neither was Ada.

“Hope they didn’t give you a hard time,” she whispered before steeling up and turning to the three men, “This is Miss (Y/N). She’s a family friend, if I hear anything about any of you thinking with your cocks and not your brains, I’ll fuckin’ beat ‘ya. She doesn’t deserve the crock of shit you three stew. Now, (Y/N), come with me. I have a lot to catch you up on.”

With that, you were guided into the parlor, unknowing to the booming business behind the curtain in the kitchen. You were also unaware of the burning blue eyes that scanned you from head to toe as you left. Another thing you were unaware of? The fact you just walked into the den of the Peaky Blinders and that you, Billy Kimber’s kid sister, were an unknown enemy by fault. This was going to become the beginning of the most trivial times.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 25

Summary: Kate Rosseau is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 25: Everything’s closing in on Tommy and he knows he needs to act.

           Tommy stepped into his study to find Alfie standing by the window in a wide-brimmed hat.

“Good morning, Alfie.” He made a beeline to the liquor cart.

The man didn’t turn around as he answered. “Yeah it is. Nice little place you got here, Thomas.” He remarked and turned around, relying on his cane to walk over. “Pleasant staff, s’well. Concerned ‘bout you, they are, said you’re not supposed to drink. What did your housekeeper say? That your head is like some smashed vase that’s been stuck back together by a horse. That right?”

Tommy didn’t say anything as he poured himself a glass of whiskey and went to sit down.

“So why’m I here, aye? Which problem of yours do you want me to come in and wave me magic wand for? ‘Cause word ‘round London is you’ve got a lot of fucking problems, mate. Lot of fucking problems. And as much as I know you enjoy me company, I can bet a lot of money that this visit wasn’t just to say hello.” Alfie sat down as well.

“You’re correct.” Tommy needed Alfie’s help, in order to secure that, he knew he needed to appeal to the man. This wasn’t the time for their famous face-offs with guns and threats.

“You’ve lost control, haven’t you, hm?” He rested his hands on the top of his cane, his rings on full display. “’Bout time innit? You’ve been hanging on to a thread for quite some time, haven’t you?”

Tommy downed his whiskey and set the crystal glass on his desk. “I’ve got control, Alfie, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“That right?” Alfie raised an eyebrow in skepticism. “Tell me then, oh wise one, d’you even know if she’s still alive?”

Somehow, the information about Kate had been passed to Alfie. Tommy couldn’t exactly remember how; his memory was still spotty. He couldn’t remember if he had sent a telegram before the injury, or he’d told Ada to send word. It didn’t matter. He pulled out a piece of paper from inside his jacket pocket. Notes he’d gotten from one of his men in America. “Twenty-six Prince Street, Boston, Massachusetts. It’s a four-story brick townhouse across from a church and a park. She takes a walk every morning around seven down the street to the docks. She leaves right before he leaves for work.”

Alfie narrowed his eyes. It was some relief to hear Kate was still alive, but that didn’t mean she was safe. “Yeah? Think you’re smart with that little information, aye? What do you plan on doing ‘bout it?”

“You help me with business here and the second it’s done; I’ll go over to America. When Kate’s on her walk, I’ll kill him for invading my territory, putting his hands on a woman, and threatening my life and the lives of my family. It’s up to Kate whether she wants to come back or not.”

Alfie leaned back, flexing his fingers with a dissatisfied look. “By a thread, Tommy, you’re hanging on by a thread. Can see it in your eyes. But, since I’m such a giving fellow, I’ll help you out with whatever madness you can cook up. You ain't the only one who wants that fucker dead.”

The corner of Tommy’s lips turned up a bit. “Very well. Let’s bring in the rest of the troops.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Kate didn’t mind the wind. She didn’t mind the chilling sting it whipped across her cheeks. She didn’t mind her hair getting mussed up. She didn’t mind because the wind came from the ocean. It carried the salt-scent through the air and made her feel alive again. It reminded her of the times her mother took her to Revere Beach in the summer. The water was brutally cold pretty much year-round. But that never stopped her from wading along the shoreline, gathering shells or hermit crabs.

The ocean made her feel young. It made her feel nostalgic. It made her feel sad.

The ocean had taken her father. Stumbling drunk, he had fallen into the ocean and drowned. His body washed up two days before her eighteenth birthday. That’s when she was training to be accepted into a ballet company. And to raise funds, she stole her father’s identity to conduct business. Illegal business.

Kate thought about this on her way to the ocean’s edge. It was something she could be thankful for, that she now lived so close to the water’s edge. It was less than a mile’s walk down the street from the apartment. From there, she followed the ocean, walking along the sidewalk that led to various parks. She would find a place to sit to look out over the harbor and watch boats pass by.

She thought about all the things she didn’t tell Tommy. All the lies she kept.

Still, she wasn’t too caught up in her thoughts to neglect her surroundings. No, she’d been mindful of her environment for weeks. Mostly because she was nearly positive someone was following her. Well, three men, actually. And one of them looked sneakily familiar.

One of those men, the tall one with sandy blond hair, was following her.

Kate wasn’t scared. Hell, she was already in a life or death situation every day of the week. Someone tracking her in broad daylight wasn’t anything to be scared of. But she was very curious. And that day, she would get her answer.

Kate stopped at a railing that overlooked the wharf. She rested her arms on the top rail, keeping her eyes out over the dark gray-blue ocean. She waited until the man was close enough.

He paused at the railing at a good distance from her. Pulling out a cigarette, he looked like just a normal bystander. But she knew better. “Y’know, you ought to tell Tommy to be a bit more discrete.”

At the sound of his employer’s name, the man jerked his head in her direction and completely blew his cover.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Besides, I recognize you from being around the betting shop. He should’ve picked people who I never met. I would think that would be his first criteria.”

The man swallowed and approached her cautiously. “Miss Lynch, Mr. Shelby was just…”

Kate sighed. “I know what he’s doing. I guess I don’t blame him.” She admitted. Seeing how uncomfortable the man looked, she figured he wasn’t meant to be talking to her. “What’s your name again?”

“Patrick, ma’am.” He answered.

“That’s right.” She nodded. “It’s alright. I’m not going to tattle on you.” She smiled weakly and bit her lip. It felt wrong to even talk to him though. She had made her decision, what good was it to lead Tommy on? To give him false hope? But she couldn’t help herself. “How is he?”

Patrick’s brow furrowed as he frowned. “Well, he was roughed up pretty bad couple of months ago.” He admitted. “Had to get brain surgery, they weren’t sure if he were even gonna make it at first.”

Kate’s heart dropped. “What?” She gasped in shock.

“S’alright now. ‘Least that’s what he says over the telephone.

“God…” She held a hand to her mouth in disbelief. “How did it…” But Kate paused. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what trouble Tommy was getting into. Would it only make her hurt more? Would it make her want to go back even when she knew she couldn’t? Everything in her wanted to know who put Tommy in the hospital. She wanted to make them pay. But it was just in her nature, as well as having so much frustration and anger pent up in her that she was ready to fight anyone.

“Miss?” Patrick noticed her eyes went a bit glassy as she looked past him.

“I’m okay.” She blinked a few times and shook her head. “So, what’s his plan with you?” She wondered.

“Well, he’s got business to finish up back home.” The young man looked uneasy telling her anything. He’d been under strict orders not to say anything. But he didn’t expect her to even notice they were watching her. “Said he would come over here to give us the rest of the money for the job. Other than that, he didn’t say.”

Kate felt like her heart was in her throat. “Well…that can’t happen.” She suddenly felt panicked that Tommy was making a plan to come to her rescue. And she had learned a while ago that once he made a plan, he stuck to his guns. What could she do to stop him all the way in America? "He can't-"

“Kate!” A woman called down the street, interrupting the thought.

Suddenly, Kate began to realize she was still in Santo’s territory. Suspicion would be raised if word got around that she was talking to a mysterious man. She couldn't talk to anyone without everything she said getting back to him. “Tonight, I’m going to need a letter on this bench.” She whispered to Patrick. “Take it and get it to Tommy, somehow.”

“But…”

“Go, go!” She shooed him off and turned to see who was calling to her. Patrick slipped away, with his hands in his pockets.

Anita, the dressmaker approached from down the sidewalk. “Dear, I’m so glad I ran into you.”

“Everything okay?” Kate smiled. She liked the company of the woman who was making her wedding dress. Even though the wedding was the last thing Kate wanted to think of, Anita made it a pleasant experience.

“Yes! I’m almost finished with the bodice of your dress. Isn’t that exciting?” Anita smiled, assuming it would be a happy moment for the bride-to-be.

After hearing the news about Tommy, Kate’s heart was already in pieces. So, the news didn’t help. “Oh, Anita, that’s-” Her voice broke and she couldn't say anything more.

The woman frowned in concern. “What’s wrong, hun?”

“I just, I’m overwhelmed with everything right now.” Kate tried to brush off her response as something a harried bride would say.

“That’s understandable. Weddings are so much work. But it’ll all be worth it in the end.” Anita promised, lightening up a bit. “Well, I have to run. Come by soon to try on the bodice, make sure it fits right.”

“I will, thanks.” Kate sighed under her breath and turned back to the ocean. She felt like she was drowning.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Shelby?”

Tommy was in the foyer, finishing putting on his cufflinks. It was the morning the orphanage was opening in Birmingham. Despite everything that happened, Tommy decided to keep Grace’s name on the foundation. After all, it was her effort and passion. It wouldn’t be fair to take it from her.

“Yes, Mary?”

Tommy’s maid came into the foyer with a slip of paper. “Telegram came for you.”

“Thank you, could you call the car around?”

“Of course.”

Tommy read over the address the telegram had come from.

Boston, Massachusetts. Patrick McCormick.

Kate recognized me. Wanted to send you a message. Freedom. Beauty. Truth. Love. Stay where you are, Nature Boy. Your family is your greatest thing. Said you’d know what it meant.

Tommy felt lightheaded. It could’ve been because he was mostly subsisting on cigarettes and whiskey those days. “Fuck.” He whispered as he rubbed his weary eyes. He should’ve known Kate would recognize Patrick. He knew how perceptive she was and knew they had met at one point.

Maybe he’d wanted this. Maybe that’s why he sent Patrick. He knew Kate would recognize him. That would alert her that he was still thinking of her. Convey that he was going to bring her home.

He sighed and tucked the telegram into his inside jacket pocket. He needed to get this plan done. There was no telling what might happen to Kate if he took any longer. And with every passing day, Tommy felt more and more hellbent on killing Santo Leoni. The man had lived long enough. "Mary!" He called. "Need you to send a telegram for me!"

///Next chapter is when everything really heats up. That slow burn is gonna get REAL HOT

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Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[x-avantgarde-x]

Let him go (part 2).

Couple: Tommy Shelby x reader.

Warnings: swearing.

__________________________

-So, is she mine?- you heard Tommy ask you. Pain coaxed both his voice and his features, and his, oh! so tired gaze was fixed over you burning with an intensity quite different from the one of just some minutes ago.

But you were paying no mind to him.

You seemed more interested in the room, which was beautifully decorated, than on whatever bullshit Thomas had to say. The furniture, made of mahogany, the enormous library and the breathtaking landscape that you could see throughout the window had you in awe. You caressed the chair you were sat at as if it was some kind of precious stone, thought to you it was. Everything on Tommy's house and the house itself was some kind of dream come true to you. And right now, indulging in your fantasies seemed to be a better idea than facing Tommy's anger.

Tommy clenched his jaw and fists tightly at your poor attempt to ignore him. A thousand thoughts were running around his mind, and his heart beat crazily because of all the emotions that he was feeling at that moment, some of them he doubted he could even name, and the last thing he needed was for you to play hard to get with him.

-(Y/N)- he spoke again. His voice was now much lower, scarily lower, his knuckles werenow white from the pressure and his heartbeat on his hears- I'll ask you just once more, and I wait for an answer- as he spoke you slowly turned your head back to him, a calm rather cold expression on your eyes -Is. She. Mine?

Tommy had emphasized each one of those words, if someone tried they would have been able to cut the tension on the room without a problem and maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing that his desk was in between you two because it was probably the only thing stopping you right now from taking the argument to the next level.

-Why would you ask me a question to which you already know the answer, Thomas? Yes, she's yours.

As soon as those words came out of your mouth you saw Tommy fly from his chair to the bar at the room, his hands meeting with a clean glass and a bottle of whiskey, to which he held to with dear life even after filling and chucking down his second glass.

-Why didn't you come back- Tommy barked with a soar voice. You face contracted and you where starting to feel truly pissed at him -I'm her father, (Y/N). I have my fucking rights.

You stood up violently pushing the -expensive- chair, which fell to the floor with a deaf sound. You stormed towards Tommy, holding your hand high as you pointed at him. -You lost every fucking right when you choose Grace over us, Tommy. So don't come here and talk to me about your fucking rights as if anything of this had been easy to me!- you felt old wounds opening up once again with each word you spoke and felt how the tears threatened to start running down your cheeks any moment now. Oh, how you hated Tommy Shelby for being able to have a such a power over you.

After leaving Tommy your life became a fucking hell. When you arrived in America you were completely alone. Your family had never liked yours and Tommy's relationship, so, at first when you told them that you had broken up and that you were now pregnant with his child they turned their backs on you. Your mother was the first one to go back to talking to you both excited about becoming a grandmother and worried about you and the baby, and it was not till you were already 4 months into your pregnancy that she did so, making everyone else slowly warm-up at a new family member that was on its way.

Thought your father would still scoff whenever he heard someone talk about the Peaky Blinders or Tommy Shelby.

Even if you had had a job since you arrived adjusting to a new life was hard, moreover for a pregnant woman. The flat you lived at wasn't glamorous. The first months living there made you feel nothing but miserable and you dreaded the moment of coming back home. It wasn't as if you came from living a luxurious life but the 50m² flat was suffocating you. You hated to spend time in the so-called living room, whose lack of space only allowed you to had a sofa, a wooden chair and a small table. The poor attempt of a kitchen made you miss so dearly the one back at Small Heath, where you used to spend so many hours sitting there with Polly and the girls, and now there's was hardly space for you to fit in. The bathroom was inhuman, it almost gave you a heart attack once you walked inside. The tiles were up, the shower tray was broken and the pipes leaked. Fixing it was almost more expensive than the flat itself. And for lats but not least the bedrooms.

There were two tiny bedrooms at that flat, one of them you hadn't even walked inside at the beginning. It was meant to be the nursery room but whenever you had attempted to open its door you heart had clenched and fallen to your stomach, pity washing over you.

Your room was no different. You believed that by now you would already be used to sleeping alone, but you were taught different the first night that you had to sleep in a bed that completely lacked Tommy's scent.

It took you quite a long time to make yourself comfortable there and even more for you to see it as your home.

Then came your work. Dealing with morning sickness as you tried to attend a customer at 8 a.m. was something you wished upon no one. Eventually, your boss decided to assign you another job in the economics department that you could work at from your house.

How many nights did you cry over your misery on Stephanie's shoulder.

Dear Stephanie, she had been your guardian angel at that hell and how much you loved her for that. When you arrived she had just been the kind-hearted and talkative girl who worked at the coffee shop at your street, who always asked you how your week had been when you passed by and eventually became the only true friend you had had in your whole life. She was the one that helped you to pay rent when it became way too much for you alone, the one that always accompanied you to the doctor's appointments, the shoulder over which you had cried yourself to sleep about everything and anything at the same time.

For God's sake! She was even the one holding your hand while you were giving fucking birth.

And, dear lord forgave you for this, the day you gave birth to your beloved Rose was without a doubt the worst day of your life.

You had been told by every doctor that had visited you how hard you should expect your labour to be, but the reality was so much worst. The main thing you could remember of it was pain. A pain that had evolved your whole being and that had lasted for about 14 hours. You could remember the hot tears that fell from your eyes throughout the whole process and the cries that filled the room long before your dear daughter had even been born. All your memories from that night were tinted in a reddish colour and it all brought back to you a faint smell of concentrated blood.

Yeah, the start of your life at America had been nothing but a living nightmare and you believed that if it hadn't been for people like Stephanie and for your baby you wouldn't have been able to keep going. And eventually, you took hold of your life once more. All that you went through those first months made you stronger than you had ever been. You no longer needed Tommy nor anyone by your side for your life not to crumble. You were now an independent woman who could take perfect care of yourself and your daughter, and who could hold the world over her shoulders.

It had been almost three years since Tommy and the life you had left behind in Birmingham had wandered around your mind. You no longer thought about coming back and you would have never had... If it hadn't been to attend your dear father's funeral.

It was meant to be nothing but a short visit. You and Stephanie had spent many hours getting everything ready. You took a ship on Tuesday at noon and to get to London on Thursday evening. Early on Friday, you and Rosie were getting off the train at Birmingham station and started the walk to your parents' house where your mom received you two with open arms and a pained expression on her face, you believed that she was being incredibly strong for having just lost the love of her life. Due to the funeral being on Saturday's evening you had spent the whole Friday walking Rosie around Small Heath, trying to keep here's far as possible from the gloomy spirit that had taken over your house.

Your three years old girl seemed fascinated with everything at the town and each of the stories you told her as the day passed by and the day of the funeral got closer. That night you slept once more on your childhood bedroom with your princess bye your side, battling to keep all the memories and emotions that being back at Small Heath brought to you out of your head.

Saturday day came and everyone at your families got dressed and ready to say your last goodbyes to your beloved dad. You, your mother and your sisters cried as if there was no tomorrow. Even Rosie and all her cousins cried at their now gone papa. Your brother was the only one who kept himself from crying, playing the tough man role that his father had taught him to be in order to make him proud wherever he now was. You gave your speeches, threw flowers at his grave and got ready to leave by the time that the church bells started to sound. You picked up Rosie from the ground and walked with her on your arms back to the house. Tomorrow you'll spend the whole day with your family, remembering old memories, cooking and eating together as you had always done when you were younger.

And by Monday’s early morning you and your baby girl would be on your way back to America. Without having seen a Peaky Blinder throughout your stay nor having had to face Tommy nor any Shelby. What you did not know was that the Saturday, while the funeral took place, Polly Shelby had spotted you between the people standing there and that later that day she had driven to her nephew's house on the outskirts of Birmingham and told him you were back I town.

That's how on Sunday's morning, while you where waiting your turn in the queue to deliver your ticket to the reviewer and get on the train, Rosie fast asleep on your arms and a heavy suitcase on your left hand, you found yourself being lead to a car by two tall men wearing those unmistakable caps and long coats. They sat you at the back of the car, without allowing you to put any resistance as they told you to get comfortable on your way to Thomas Shelby.

And now you found yourself facing your ex-lover and about to start throwing things to each other in no time.

[thedeviltohisangel]

He’s A God, He’s A Man: 14

Spin me round again.

masterlist is my url/writing

send me any requests for the upcoming interlude!

When the crowd of people and their voices began to approach the wagon where they were hiding out, Lydia and Tommy figured that meant it was time to join the party again. She smiled as brightly as she would and let Ada pull her closer to the fire for a dance and some warmth.

“Tommy take you away to make you forget about the fact he uses his family as pawns?” Ada sounded cheerful as she asked the biting question. 

“Something like that,” Lydia replied without any emotion behind her voice. She couldn’t imagine the psychological toll being here was putting on Ada. That combined with the late stage of her pregnancy and the alcohol that was flowing made it so her brain and mouth weren’t properly communicating. 

“I need something to drink. I’ll be right back!” Ada kissed Lydia on the cheek before scampering off to the barrels that were on the periphery of the party. Lydia spun in a circle trying to find someone she knew. John was with his new wife, laughing and dancing and stealing kisses. She smiled. At least they would be happy together no matter how it was that they got together. Arthur was sitting with Polly and enjoying a drink and a smoke and a conversation. It was odd to her what all these people now meant to her. It wasn’t so long ago that she had forgotten about everyone in the Shelby family save for Tommy. Now they were part of her support system. A home away from home of sorts. Perhaps looking for stability only in the arms of Tommy was the wrong answer. She needed to find it all around her.

“I never got to tell you that you look stunning tonight.” Lyda turned to see the man in question. 

“I was keeping you preoccupied with other things,” she teased with a hint of a smirk. “It’s been nice to see a bit more of your gypsy heritage. The energy is a bit intoxicating, isn’t it?” It made her wonder why Tommy kept so much of this part of him hidden. Polly was very embracing of the gypsy blood that ran through her veins. It was one of the things Lydia loved most about her.

“Takes me back to when my mum was here. When she was happy.” 

“You never talk about her.” He hadn’t in France and he hadn’t since they reunited.

“How do you talk about someone that left before I really got a chance to know the true them?” Tommy wishes he had been able to shoulder some of the burden his mother so clearly had felt. Maybe she’d still be there if she hadn’t felt so alone. “Would you join me for a dance?” he asked in a bid to change the subject. He couldn’t let his mind run wild. It did that enough without his permission. 

The song was somewhere between fast and slow when he gathered her into his arms. She pressed as closely as she could to him and let her lips brush against his as they swayed softly to the music. “Have you thought at all about having a gypsy wedding?” she inquired as he spun her around so now her back was to his chest.

“I used to think about it. Before the war. I haven’t thought about much of anything in that vein since then.” Tommy dipped her and a gleeful smile spread across her face that was contagious enough to reach his as well.

“Could one, conceivably, do both a gypsy wedding and a traditional church wedding?”

“I don’t see why not,” Tommy shrugged as they fell back into a traditional dancing stance.

“Means the bride would need at least one more dress…”

“At least?” 

“At least,” she repeated with a stern tone. 

“What am I going to do with you?” Tommy joked as he puckered his lips for a kiss. She granted his request with a smile and giggle. So in love and so oblivious to anything else that was happening around them. 

“Spin! Spin!” Lydia cheered as she raised their hands and urged her partner along. Tommy caught her and dropped her into another elaborate dip before going back in for a deeper kiss. One that felt like it was leading to something more. “Thomas-”

“I need one of you to help me get Ada to calm down.” They paused their joyous dancing as Polly came over. “She’s been stuck in that basement for weeks and is going off like a firecracker.” Lydia looked and saw Ada spinning in dizzying circles on the verge of stumbling into a heap. Tommy sighed deeply and went over to his sister after pecking Lydia’s forehead in apology that their lighthearted moment had to come to an end.

“Come have a rest, Ada, let’s sit down,” Tommy spoke as he extended his hand towards his sister. She stopped dancing and turned to look at him but Lydia saw malice in her eyes.

“Come have a look, Esme. Come and look at the man who runs the family you joined. Chooses his brother’s bride for him. Hunts his own sister down like a rat. Doesn’t know how to let a good thing go unsullied,” she spit as she pointed at Lydia for the last part.

“Ada, that’s enough.” Tommy could feel his voice raising in volume and his tone growing in resentment and impatience. These were personal issues she was now screaming for all to hear. These were meant to be resolved behind closed doors, just between the few of them. 

“Now he won’t even let me have a fucking dance!” she screeched with a jabbed point of her finger.

“Please take a deep breath,” Lydia urged as she took a few steps towards the girl. “Let’s sit down and relax for a moment.” As her hand rested on Ada’s elbow to help guide her to a table, they both froze.

“Holy shit, water,” Polly said with wide eyes as they watched it trickle down her leg.

“Quit your groaning. Would one of you bring the car around?” Lydia instructed as the Shelby brothers were moaning and groaning over her timing. “Now, breathe with me, Ada.”

----

“I got the word from Tommy that it’s safe for Freddie to come out tonight,” Polly announced as she came back from The Garrison. Lydia’s ears perked up at her words. She knows she scared Campbell off with her own threat but that didn’t mean his hadn’t resonated with her. 

“Keep going, Ada. Push when your body is telling you to.” Lydia had helped deliver a few babies since the war. A couple of officers wives back in New York had asked for her soothing voice to be with them on the night. She couldn’t decline the request of an expectant mother. “Polly, will you take over hand duty while I got heat up some water?” They exchanged Ada’s grip with ease, Lydia grabbing a bucket and heading down to the sitting room where the fire was roaring hottest. She let the bucket sit on top of the logs before sneaking into Tommy’s office where the phone sat on his desk. It was taunting her. Asking her if she was really going to do it. Call Campbell and alert him that Freddie Thorne was going to be out on the streets of Birmingham tonight. That his guard was going to be down. On one hand it seemed like the right thing to do. In the long run, it protected the members of the Shelby whom she had grown to love beyond recognition. On the other hand, it meant breaking Ada’s heart and forcing upon Freddie a fate she would never truly be aware of. A scream from upstairs broke her inner turmoil. She had one minute to make her decision.

----

Lydia tried to put a smile on her face as it was announced that Ada had given birth to a baby boy.

“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Ada cooed as she showed her husband the little bundle. 

“Welcome to the world, son,” Freddie whispered. She was about to excuse herself from the room and go drink a cabinet’s worth of alcohol at The Garrison when a multitude of police officers burst through the door. 

“Don’t hurt him!” Ada called as one of them grabbed Freddie roughly by the shoulders. She held her arms around Ada’s shoulders to keep her from lunging after him. To keep her from hurting herself or the baby in the process of this moment. Polly would always remember the lack of emotion in Lydia’s eyes as she caught a brief glimpse of her in the fray. It was then she knew she was capable of surviving in this world.

----

She sighed when she saw the basket of rotten food at Ada’s door. Lydia had been making trips in an attempt to feed her and her baby but clearly they were not working. She always tried to talk to her, make her see reason. But there was no use. She barely believed the words coming out of her mouth let alone having the capacity to convince someone else of their veracity. All she could do was swap out the old basket for the new one and be back on her merry way.

“Did you talk to her?” Tommy asked once Lydia appeared back from brief and fruitless errand.

“Yes but she didn’t talk back,” she grumbled as she angrily removed her gloves. Tommy sighed and leaned back in his chair. Not only was it horrible to know his sister was secluding herself and her baby from the family and blamed him for the incarceration of Freddie Thorne, but Lydia’s light had been severely dulled by the entire situation. She was moping about Watery Lane, moped about all of Small Heath, he even thought she looked mopey in her sleep. “I know you fired me from The Garrison but I might pop over there today. Speak to some of the regulars and see if they can cheer me up.” She understood that not only would she have to quit in order to attend nursing school but also that the girl of Tommy Shelby shouldn’t be working. He said one day he’d make her a kept woman but, in actuality, nothing sounded more dreadful.

“I’ll pop over with you. Some paperwork of Arthur’s that needs double checking.” He placed a fresh cigarette into his mouth before helping her back into the coat she had just thrown off.

“Have you mentioned anything to them about New York? Give Polly and Arthur a chance to start planning for your absence?” Tommy sighed and she felt a sense of dread settled within her. The thought of disappearing across the ocean with him had been the only thing keeping her going the past couple of days. 

“There are a couple of things I need to take care of personally before I fully can transition to that mindset.”

“Things I can help you with?” Tommy playfully tugged her hat over her ears.

“Perhaps,” he relented. She was always so eager. It was the constant light within her that made him smile more often these days. 

“I know this isn’t supposed to be a work trip but-”

“The dreaded word,” Tommy groaned as they began to finally make their way out the door.

“I am near positive that the books and the diary have not been updated or kept in good order since I left. Perhaps you will allow me to give them a look over?” She smiled at him toothily. Working kept her busy. Kept the thoughts away. Lydia had taken on The Garrison like a sort of child that needed to be nurtured and minded. Leaving it solely in Arthur’s hands had somewhat kept her up at night.

“I suppose you know that I can never say no to you.”

“Why I think that is the wisest thing you’ve said in awhile, Mr. Shelby.”

----

She watched with a keen interest as he drew a black star into the diary. “What does that mean?” she asked as her own fingers traced over the symbol. Something about it felt important. Felt like a signpost along the route of their life together.

“The day we takeout Billy Kimber and his men.” Her finger stopped. 

“Who knows that you’ve picked this day?”

“My family hates me, why would I tell them?” She wanted to rip her hair out and scream. No one but Thomas Shelby would think this was a feat he could accomplish all on his own. She felt like her heart was going to explode out of her chest. Not just with worry for him but also for herself. Knowledge and information was power. He was letting her hold all the cards. Letting her have access to information the people he loved and trusted the most didn’t have.

“Because you need people standing by your side, Tommy. Your family, and your love for them, aren’t a weakness but a strength.” She stood from the desk and held his face in her hands. “I know you’ve reconciled yourself with what comes after if you don’t succeed. But I need you. I need you. I need you.” Normally, Tommy hated feeling needed. He wished the world would give him a break from people relying on him. But hearing the words fall from her mouth strengthened something inside of him. Made his heart pump more sure. His eyes open wider. His brain work faster. 

“I love you.” He wanted to say he needed her back but that felt like a show of weakness. A secret that would dig both of them a grave. Tommy hoped he made it past black star day. He had a ship to catch.

@flecksphoenix​ @girl-w-a-quill​ @odetostep​ @itsilvermorny​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @lemmyjelly​ @blues022​

[hethrewmyheartinthecut]

Sigrid • Michael Gray x Norwegian!Reader

A/N: This reader’s name is Sigrid Tangen & she’s a gift for @peakystitches

(this is now a one shot)

He'd said something.

You turned from the sweep of green rushing by the window and back to the only other inhabitant of the train car. You had been doing your best to ignore him, a friendly good morning aside, because he carried a certain quiet beauty far too easily to make conversation with him anything but clumsy.

"Pardon?" you said. It was easy enough, if you avoided looking directly in his dark eyes.

"I said, is this your first time on a train?"

You smiled. Oh dear. "Is it that obvious?"

"It's not a bad thing. It's only a fact." He took out a silver cigarette holder from his pocket, the gold glint of it matching the watch on his wrist perfectly. "Cigarette?"

"No, thank you." You should have turned back to the window, but he was eyeing you with faint curiosity, and there was nothing about one mile of forest that another mile of forest didn't also contain.

"I can't place that accent," he said mildly.

A faint suspicion stirred in the back of your mind, but no, it was a fairly obvious question. You did have a thick accent. Your palms began to sweat anyway. "Norway."

"Oslo?"

Your throat tightened. You tried to smile. "You have an admirable grasp on geography."

He shrugged.

"The family house is in Oslo," you finally said. That seemed accurate enough. God, why bother with trying not to lie at this point?

"That's interesting, I've never met a Norwegian before. Pleased to meet you, Miss...?"

"Margit...Henne." Couldn't even come up with a simple name fast enough.

His expression turned from amused curiosity to sharp assessment. Your terror must have shown on your face; you were never a good actor.

"Have I said something offensive?" he said.

You made your hands into fists to stop them shaking. Looking him up and down now, there were details that didn't quite fit a young businessman. One in particular. You had thought about this for a long time beforehand. If it was going to happen, it would at least happen on your terms. "Don't play with your food. Just eat," you managed to say.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." His gaze flicked down to your hands and back up again. "I think you'd better have that cigarette."

You were breathing fast, speaking between teeth. "Don't bother."

"Look—"

"You have a gun, in a shoulder holster, under your left arm."

He raised his hands, placating you. "That doesn't mean I'm going to use it on you. I only learned your name a minute ago."

Deep breath. Who knew what was real and what wasn't, at that point. You met his dark eyes full-on, tilted your chin up, and said, as evenly as you could, "My name is Sigrid Tangen, and I have been expecting someone to come and kill me for the last three weeks. If it's going to be you, you should know: I'd prefer it quick."

.

.

.

His eyes darted around the train compartment, to the hall outside, assessing. You went on, only because it would be a relief to have the words said to somebody, anybody: "A bullet through the eye would be enough. And if you have orders to make it bloody, have the decency to do that part afterwards."

For a moment, you both went still, staring, his eyes calculating, yours shining with unshed tears. Then he reached under his jacket, produced the gun, leaned over, and laid it on your lap.

"There," he said. "The easiest proof."

It could be a trick. You picked the gun up hesitantly, felt the weight of it.

"That's a Webley," he said. "Made right in Birmingham, where we're headed. Ugly one, isn't it? I like their revolvers better."

Well, the black steel of the pistol, with its awkward grip and its the sight perched on an oddly thin barrel, was not exactly a beauty. Even the diamond of smooth steel in the crosshatched grip, the gun's one concession to aesthetics, seemed slightly off to the left of center. You ran your fingers over the grip, there, feeling the cold, odd texture, anchoring yourself in the object.

"Fuck," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you find not dying such a disappointment."

You were crying.

"Here." He got up and sat beside you, took the gun from your shaking hands, and holstered it. Then he produced a handkerchief, which you took gratefully. He patted your shoulder a couple times. "You'll be all right."

"Sorry," you managed to say. "It's been a week since the last time someone tried to kill me, and the waiting is the worst part."

"It's not the part where they're trying to kill you, eh?" He lit a cigarette, passed it over. You took it, because it must have been rude not to, and there was a little relief in the brush of fingers. There was a little relief in that he was trying, a little dignity in managing to smoke without coughing. You passed the cigarette back to him, and he exhaled slowly, gave you another handkerchief.

Finally, you got ahold of yourself, ran out of tears, and handed him back his handkerchiefs. "Thank you."

"So, Sigrid. What happened the last time they tried to kill you?"

His low voice, the casual lilt of it, helped you enormously. You felt yourself getting into the rhythm of a quite normal conversation, even if the subject matter was wild. "Car bomb. But it didn't go off properly. Why are you carrying a gun?"

"I like to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?"

"Anything. What happened three weeks ago?"

"It's a long story."

"We have time."

You teetered on the edge of it, looking at him. The rational answer was a flat no, but something in the steadiness of his broad shoulders, the calm of his voice, his hands, made you want to trust him. And then that instinct was probably fucked too, wasn't? God, you weren't cut out for not trusting people.

"I'd rather not tell it to you if it's only for the sake of your curiosity," you said. "Though you have been kind. I'm sorry, it's not a good story anyways. Not as interesting as it seems."

"It's more than rubbernecking. I'm beginning to be concerned that while someone tries to kill you, I might get mixed up in it. There's several stops on this train, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry." You rubbed your forehead. You were beginning to get a headache, as you usually did when you cried that hard. Or when the weather was bad. Or for no reason at all. You had to at least keep up the conversation, though. "What is rubbernecking?"

"Turning your head to look at something. Gawking. Like a tourist. Maybe it's a thing only Americans say. I barely know anymore."

"Do you work in America?"

"I live in America. Used to. Fuck knows where I live now," he said bitterly. "I've been summoned."

"By who, the queen?"

He smiled a smile that reached his eyes. He looked a world different when he did that. "Almost. She's worse, and better. My mum."

"Oh. Summoned for what?"

"A family meeting." He gave you a sidelong glance. "Have you heard of Tommy Shelby?"

"Maybe? I think? He's some politician?"

Michael gave another smile, this one of private amusement. "Yes. He's family. He called a meeting, and my mum wants me a part of it."

"Is that why you have the gun, then?"

"No, if Tommy wanted me dead, he'd have me killed in London. Not Birmingham."

"I didn't mean that your family hated you—I only meant—sorry. I only wondered if it was family troubles that made me cautious. It's family troubles that have made me cautious, you see. That's all."

"'Family troubles' is accurate," he said dryly. "So, what was Oslo like?"

You went into it, from your store of memories, careful to paint each one with the patina of a false familiarity, taking a wharf-side restaurant you'd eaten at once and turning it into a family favorite, turning a pretty painted church into a weekly spot, and so on and so on. You tried to give something of the flavor of its people, but found yourself speaking mostly in negatives and contrasts; the difference between Oslo and London, that is, because you had so little else you could compare it to. None of it was quite a full lie.

In turn, he told you about New York, and that seemed to unfold him, after a while; he grew animated, talking of its internecine battles amongst glittering socialites and politicians and gangsters, his favorite club, rolling his eyes about some third-generation construction magnate trying to bring in his pet peacock, trying to put into words an apparently tangible difference between the social classes in New York and those in London—

"What's wrong?" he said abruptly.

"Nothing. You don't have to stop, it's only one of my headaches. I get them for no reason, they last however long they last, and I won't let them get in the way."

"What does it feel like?"

"Like my head is a small nut being slowly crushed between the teeth of a giant. But," you added, "I can still hold a conversation."

"Here." He produced a silver flask, engraved in a cursive you couldn't well read at that angle.

"What is it?" You unscrewed the top and sniffed.

"Whiskey."

"Is this medically sound?"

"No, but it feels good," he said matter-of-factly. "And it'll help you fall asleep. You're going to Birmingham, right?"

"Yes."

"I'll wake you up when we hit the stop."

It was deeply unwise to drink anything offered, of course, but fuck if sleep didn't sound good, and if he wanted you dead, as he himself said about his cousin, you'd have been killed already. So you had your drink, and he had a little too, and then you slipped away into a light, unsatisfying sleep.

The sleep didn't help much, and when you woke, he offered to show you how to get to to the address of your new house.

"I should take a cab," you said.

His lips quirked in a smile. Another one of those amused little things.

"What?"

"So you do have some self-preservation in you."

"It's not because I don't want you to see the address. It's because I don't want to walk on strange streets. I'm no city girl, and I'm not in any state to deal with complications."

"Never mind complications, if by complications, you mean people trying to kill you. If I walked with you," he said quietly, "I could take you through the factories of the Gun District, and past the brothels downtown, and along the shipping docks, and no man would so much as say a word to you."

It had not occurred to you before, but it occurred to you then: perhaps the interest he had taken in you was more than simply polite. Your mouth went dry.

Before you could muster an appropriate response (whatever the hell that would sound like), he had hailed a cab for you, and opened the door. "Here you are."

"Michael..." There was absolutely no polite way to say I take it back, I'd love to walk with you and your odd ugly gun and your beautiful dark eyes and your strange New York tongue and your quick half-smiles, I'd want all of it. Really there was no acceptable way to say that. So: "...thank you."

He nodded, expressionless, then turned and began hustling your bags into the back of the cab.

"Do you have a business card?" you said, after a second.

"I didn't say what my business exactly was."

"You didn't have to."

He fished one out of his wallet and handed it over to you. "Ignore the American number. And in the Birmingham number, change the last two numbers to 71, all right? Otherwise, you'll be in for it with one of the secretaries."

"In for it?"

"They're not exactly hostile, but they are inquisitive."

"All right."

"Are you comin' or not?" the cabbie demanded.

"Coming, sorry. Sorry." God, you must have been obvious. You must have been so obvious, the little black card clutched in one hand, hair rumpled from the train nap, unwilling, even then, to leave him.

"Goodnight, Sigrid."

"Goodnight."

[rolltidewrestlingfan4life]

THIS IS VERY LONG AND VERY PERSONAL FOR ME. YOU MAY FIND IT AN ENJOYABLE STORY. I DID NOT PLAN TO WRITE A VIRTUAL NOVELLA BUT MY HEART AND SOUL STARTED POURING.

I didn’t do this back in February but this man deserves the mention and respect. This is the man that raised me. The man I idolize. He died February 5th as I was performing CPR on him or just before. I’m happy that he had a very quick and painless death that I believe he was expecting and prepared for. This man was born in New Hampshire and took a job in the 8th grade, he never returned to school and usually worked 2 jobs 6 days a week. His family moved back and forth between New Hampshire and Vermont. He got his first car when his brother’s car broke down, his brother traded him a 48 Ford for a bicycle.He loved riding his Indian motorcycle until a car slowed too fast  in front of him and he collided and flew over the top of the car, miraculously his only injuries were cuts and knocked out teeth. In 1955, he made the decision to join the US Air Force.It would be the decision that triggered his destiny, After completing basic training he returned home to New Hampshire, gave his brother his air force ring as a momento (I have it now) and headed to Savannah Georgia where he was stationed. 

431 miles away, in a booming coal mining town deep in the country of central Alabama, there lived a teenage girl in her senior year of high school. She didn’t really care for any of the boys in her town though she would “take them from their girlfriends to prove she could” She had an aunt and uncle that lived up in the big city in Birmingham, that is..until  her Uncle joined the Army. Ironically, he was station in Savannah.

As fate would have it, the man from Alabama met the young man from New Hampshire and they became friends. One day there was a special event at the base where family was invited, the teenage girl came with her aunt to see her Uncle. In the cool twilight of the day the girl was walking outside when she saw a man sitting on a bench beneath an oak tree. The tree was huge,it had stood for many decades if not a century, the tree had wisdom in it’s soul. She stared at the young man in the distance. The sun was fading as swamp moss swayed in the breeze as the night began to overtake the day. She saw a flicker of light as the young man lit a Lucky Strike with his zippo. “he looks just like Elvis Presley” she thought. Something in the breeze made her sneeze, try as she might she could not hold it in. The young man turned at the sound and stopped in his tracks. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever saw and he had to meet her. He approached her and introduced himself, he was the young man from New Hampshire. They spent a lot of that night sitting under that mighty oak and talking about their pasts, their presents and their hopes for the future.

Not long after the meeting, the man was deployed to Morocco in North Africa. Morocco had been under French control and the locals were ready for a revolution. He was a photographer, after a battle between the rebels and the french, he would either sit on the edge or hang from a cord out of a helicopter and take photos of dead bodies, destroyed buildings. He saw a lot of things a man just don’t want to remember while he was in Africa. When he was being sent home, the airplane he was in lost an engine over the Bermuda triangle, the plane struggled but managed an emergency landing in the Virgin Islands.. after a day there, he was in the air bound for Savannah.

He was pleasantly surprised and happy to see the girl from Alabama waiting when he and his fellow soldiers stepped off the plane. They went to the movies that day. They would talk on the phone and write long love letters to one another almost daily. I have a shoebox full of these and they span a month, It was clear these two were smitten. One weekend, he decided he had to see her. He went AWOL on a Friday night and drove almost 7 hours through a state he had never seen, to a town he had never heard of. The young girl’s mother had heard about him and knew he was her brother in law’s friend, she also knew her daughter was crazy about him. She invited him in for supper and to talk and get to know the family. When bedtime came though, the young man was made to sleep on the porch. Going AWOL on weekends to spend days in her house and nights alone on her porch became a regular thing until finally, he showed up one weekend with a ring. A week later, they were married in a small church that her family had established decades ago, He was called up to serve in the Bay of Pigs but received his honorable discharge just a week before. He flew to New Hampshire and kissed his momma, got his dad’s guitar (the only thing he had left of his father) and wished his brothers and sisters well. He flew back to his new home and his new wife in Alabama. He opened his own photography studio but business was slow, there just wasn’t a demand for professional photography in this town. He took a job with the owner of a gas station/general store at the end of Main Street, he worked 6 days a week,, delivering items, repairing things and installing huge propane tanks. In 1959, he and his wife had their first child, a daughter. A little boy came in 1961. His father in law was an electrician at the huge hospital in Birmingham Alabama, he got the young man a job in the maintenance department.

He learned much working at the huge University Hospital, he learned about electricity, he learned HVAC, he learned plumbing. He watched and soaked in everything. He was a long way away from the burning corpses he photographed in Africa, or was he? September 15 1963 seemed a usual day at work. Even a slow day, He was working in the attic area of the hospital, running ductwork, secluded from people or news. Around noon he got a call to immediately go to the morgue and repair a broken light. When he got there he climbed his ladder and fixed the light. With the room now bright, he realized he had illuminated bad memories and new sorrow, as he climbed down the ladder he looked down upon the charred and burned bodies of four young innocent girls. One was completely decapitated, barely recognizable as a human, another had metal embedded in her head. He could not fathom what he was seeing, he did not know what he felt. He only knew his heart was broken. He found out later these girls were murdered. The church they were attending sunday school at was bombed, an act of racism in the deep south in 1963. He hated it. This man never liked seeing someone innocent hurt or suffer. He also never saw color, he saw people for being decent or not. He was a part of history that day, however small a part it may have been.

After 5 years of working at the huge hospital in the magic city, he was told of a new, smaller hospital being built. It was closer to home and they were paying more to attract employees. He started in maintenance and engineering the day they hospital opened in 1964. Two months later, the director of plant operations resigned, this position was 3rd in command of the whole hospital and responsible for overseeing engineering, maintenance, and security. At only 26 years old,he was shocked when the position was offered to him. He accepted without hesitation. He was a nervous wreck but it fueled him. His wife took a job at the same hospital.

In 1982, his first grandchild was born, His son had a daughter. A grandson followed in 1984. In 1989, his daughter had her only son. To the man, there was something different about this kid, maybe it was his father not being around, maybe it was fate but the man decided he would mold this kid and raise this kid. He was closer to this kid than the other grandchildren. He fell in love with that baby and as he grew that baby became a kid and loved that man too. From then on out, they were absolutely inseparable.. I am that kid. We would ride dirt roads while Alan Jackson or George Strait, George Jones and Merle Haggard blaring on the radio. I was always the flashlight man. Deep in a dark crawlspace holding it while he worked on electrical wires.. just as he did I was watching, I was learning, I was soaking in his knowledge like a sponge. We would ride the country roads on the weekend, stopping at every yardsale and junkyard we’d pass. Oh, how I loved when we’d burn brush or leaves and watch the fire. We’d go fishing and somehow there was always a venomous snake and he always killed it with a wooden handle floating fishing knife. I still have that knife today.

His father in law had passed in 1984 and his mother in law’s health was failing, His wife retired early from the hospital in 2001 to take care of her. Her aunt and the Uncle that had arranged their meeting way back in Savannah were also gravely ill, she moved them in too. He kept working at the hospital,He was the man that made that place run. His mother in law passed in late 2001. In 2003, her uncle passed away. It had come full circle. He had made it possible for them to meet and they had returned the favor by caring for him, her aunt followed him in death shortly after.

By this time, his granddaughter had two daughters and he and his wife had been through a lot caring for 3 bedridden people for 3 years. When he received word that the huge hospital in Birmingham he had left 40 years ago was taking over the hospital, he retired. For the next 19 years, It was yard sales, brush fires, and working on houses. I was grown but I was still a kid, still watching his every move, still his helper, still his flashlight man. In 2017, he suddenly grew weaker. He still worked and pushed himself as hard as he could but something was wrong. He knew it. He just didn’t know what. Through 2018 I became the main repairman, he just couldn’t do it anymore. His leg and back had great pain. He lit the pilot light with me and all but collapsed as we exited the basement. His legs had grown week and just gave out on him. Later that day I had to repair something in the attic, I will never forget him saying “I’m sorry, I’d help you if I could, I’d even just hold your flashlight but I gotta say in my chair right now, you know what you’re doing son.” Neither of us spoke it, but that was a powerful moment.. He had called me son. All of my life, I never saw him as my grandad, though I did call him Papa. I called him dad from that day forward. Later that year, I bought a fuel pump for his truck, I love that truck. I bought new tires and got it running. When he saw it running, he told me “You did a good job getting her going son, take care of YOUR truck.” He knew he had grown old, his memory had began failing, his legs weakening. He had passed his role as the fixer around three houses, and he had passed his truck to me.

Through 2018 most of our time together was spent in his den, him in his recliner, me on the couch, nana in hers. We watched NASCAR, we watched every Alabama football game together, when nana was gone.. me and Papa would watch reruns of Gunsmoke, and Mash. He passed out at a store in late 2018 and was admitted to the hospital, all the test revealed nothing wrong, they attributed the pain to a nerve. On February 4 2019, He really wanted a haircut to the point the barber had to stay late to wait for us. It was a 15 minute drive to the barbershop and he and I talked, we talked about memories, we talked about friends who had died, and family who had died. His memory was sharp as a tack that day. On the way home, I asked him why he was in such a hurry for a haircut.. He reached over and put his hand on my knee, gave me a gentle pat.. his eyes.. the same eyes that had seen dead bodies in Africa, burnt little girls dead in alabama, that had seen 60 years of a wonderful marriage, 2 children, 2 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren, those same eyes looked at me. There was a focus yet a distance in them as he answered “I just felt like I needed to look good for tomorrow.”

The next morning, I woke up around 7 as usual and walked next door to their house, he wasn’t awake yet. He had started sleeping in, or just laying in the bed. It had gotten to where by the time he got up and got dressed, his legs were so weak he had to lay right back down. I got my coffee and visited with my grandmother a while and refilled my cup and went home. A couple hours later I had the strongest urge to go see him, as I got up I noticed my coffee cup was full. “He’s probably not up yet, I’ll wait until all my coffee is gone then I’ll see him.” That was a decision I will always regret.

Maybe 30 minutes later, As I was listening to the The Rolling Stones through my headphones, I heard the sound of my little cousin screaming. She was outside running toward my house just screaming help and crying at the top of her lungs. I ran outside and she yelled it’s papa. The whole world became a blur. I knew nothing. Nothing was familiar. It was so fast yet so slow. All I knew was I was me, and he was him. I loved him. He was my life and I was his. I had to get ti him. I ran faster than I ever dreamed I could, I didn’t even notice doors or steps.. Though I had to have somehow seen them. Everything was blur. I was here, he was there. It felt like an hour but it was really less than a minute. I got to him. There he was, laying on his back in front of his bedroom door. As soon as I saw him, his words about his haircut the day before played in my mind. I knew he was gone. He was my Papa, my dad, my friend, my teacher, my everything. I had to try and bring him back. I immediately started cpr. 911 advised me to do mouth to mouth as well, when I did, I tasted blood. I never stopped cpr. I knew je was gone. In that moment, his kid finally became a man. I felt different, I finally felt just like him. My Mind 2 months later is still in the floor with him. Today, I let that go. He would want me too. He would say sometimes, well we tried everything.. that thing just can’t be fixed. A couple nights ago I had a dream, so vivid. It was an exact replay. I was over his body desperately performing CPR, suddenly, in the dream.. he appeared and pulled me away from his own body. It was clear this was his spirit as he put his arm around me and hugged me and said “It just gave out on me, you tried everything, that old thing just couldn’t be fixed.” He lived an amazing life. The world will not remember nor remark him but today I celebrate him. I celebrate him for going from an 8th grade education to an air force photographer to spending 40 years as director of engineering at a hospital. I celebrate him for being a rock who always helped his family or those in need.  I celebrate him for picking me. It’s no secret I was his favorite. He never tried to hide it, not to spite the others. This man loved all of his grandchildren equally.. There was just something different with me. It was like we were twins. We were just inseparable. I write all this to celebrate him and to let him go. My mind must stop trying to bring him back. He lived his life and he is now free from pain and a failing body. He is learning all the mysteries, he is getting all the answers so that he can teach me when I get there. I love you so much Papa, your soul is in heaven, but your spirit is in me. I see you in my eyes, I wear your belt buckle and I use your tools. I drive our truck. Your fingerprints are everywhere. It’s okay that you’re not here in your body. You’ve left a mark on everything. You will always be alive in us. I wish you had lived until I had children, I know you liked the young lady I wish would be mine.I can’t wait until I do have children and I can tell and show them all about their amazing Papa. 

Heaven needed a jack of all trades engineer, they got you. Have fun up there, I’ve got it down here, I learned from the best and you taught me well. I will take care of nana, the houses and the rest of the family and hopefully one day I’ll do what you did and move and marry the girl of my dreams. I hope you get to watch my life from up there, and I hope I make you proud.

-JLM

[khalilhumam]

What should athletes demand for police reform?

New Post has been published on http://khalilhumam.com/what-should-athletes-demand-for-police-reform/

What should athletes demand for police reform?

By Rashawn Ray Professional athletes have an extraordinary platform for public action and they are using it. They can command media time, get their calls returned by leading politicians, have access to financial resources, and can encourage broad segments of society to respond in certain ways, like voting. At a time of persistent police brutality and racist behavior, we should not be surprised that athletes and coaches are protesting and speaking out about the police violence against George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Jacob Blake, and many others who never get a trending hashtag. Yet, the goal of these athletes is not just to express their outrage but to drive meaningful social change and racial equity. Beyond condemning police brutality, there are a number of specific actions that would make a dramatic difference. Adoption of these items would go a long way towards reducing police use of force and preventing future police shootings. 1.  Demand that tax monies not be used to pay for legal settlements in cases of officer misconduct and that police departments pay for malpractice insurance out of their own budgets. In most areas, taxpayer money is used to pay civil settlements for police misconduct cases. So, the millions of dollars in taxes that players from teams like the Milwaukee Bucks, Los Angeles Lakers, Washington Mystics, Dallas Cowboys, Seattle Sounders, Pittsburgh Penguins, and New York Yankees pay in taxes go to civilian payouts for police misconduct. More insult to injury, these payouts do not come out of police department budgets. They come from general funds, which is money that could go to improving schools and providing work infrastructure. New York City paid $230 million in one year for police misconduct settlements and Chicago has spent over $650 million over the past two decades. An alternative is for police departments to have their own insurance policies to cover police misconduct settlements. While the policy will be covered by the municipality, this important change will shift accountability and financial liability away from taxpayers to police departments by including a clause that the policy is paid from the police department budget. In a market-driven approach, police chiefs can now see how much each officer is costing them due to misconduct. It will justify removing “bad apples” who are often allowed to further rotten the trees of policing. This is important because in many cities everyone one out of three tax dollars are spent on police departments. Players might also advocate for police officers carrying their own malpractice insurance. This is important too, but it is vital that police departments as a whole are on the hook for the role they play in shaping policy and practice. This is similar to the doctor-hospital model. 2.  Dismantle qualified immunity Players can also demand for absolving qualified immunity. Qualified immunity is the legislation that often prevents officers from facing civil culpability. Players simply need to advocate for the George Floyd Justice in Policing Act, which passed the House of Representatives on what would have been Tamir Rice’s 18th birthday. The Senate has failed to introduce the bill for formal discussion. Players could demand this happens. The bill also aims to demilitarize police, ban no-knock warrants, and create a federal database of police shootings and officers fired for misconduct. 3.  Improve transparency in cases of police misconduct Players can demand transparency. First, they can demand that body-worn camera video evidence be released immediately. Second, they can demand that officers’ history with use of force be released. Third, they can demand that police departments release quarterly lists of misconduct allegations. This means demanding that all officers have body-worn cameras. Kenosha officers do not. But they are not alone. From Kenosha to Prince George’s County, Maryland, all officers still do not have cameras. Finally, athletes can demand that the community have representation on internal police department misconduct boards, like Nashville is doing. Imagine if we didn’t have video footage from everyday Americans who heroically filmed injustices when police officers did not stand up? Without video evidence, we should ask ourselves if we would even know about George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Sandra Bland, Walter Scott, Eric Garner, or Marlene Pinnock—a great-grandmother who was beaten by California highway patrolmen and received a $1.5 million settlement. The officer resigned and would be on the federal list from the George Floyd Justice on Policing Act. This would ensure that the officer could not work in another department, as would have been the case for the officers who killed 12-year old Tamir Rice in Cleveland and 17-year Antwon Rose in Pittsburgh. As Will Smith said, “Racism isn’t getting worse. It is getting filmed.” 4.  Fund research to improve police-community relations There are many outstanding organizations focusing on police reform, but the research and policy component is key. At Brookings, we are engaged in innovative and transformative work with the The Lab for Applied Social Science Research (LASSR) at the University of Maryland. LASSR, where I serve as Executive Director, has developed a virtual reality program that aims to improve the decisions that officers make. We vary the setting, race, and gender of the people that officers encounter and give them feedback to reduce bias. My research shows that implicit biases about players’ bodies and humanity extends from the ways that officers view them on their streets or in their cars to the ways that commentators and journalists describe them on the court. Players understand this as well. They realize they cannot “outclass racism.” Being famous, having high-status, or money does not stop overpolicing. Sometimes these qualities exacerbate it. This was the case for minor league baseball player Robbie Tolan who was shot in front of his home, derailing his professional career. This was the case for Milwaukee Bucks’ player Sterling Brown, who after being tazed and tackled by multiple officers in a Walgreens store parking lot said, “I look familiar, don’t I?” “Only after the stun gun was used does an officer recognize who Brown is. Not that he is a human being, but a professional basketball player for the hometown team,” wrote journalist Martenzie Johnson. There are many other incidents that professional athletes experience as well including having the police called when going to view a property (Cam Chancellor), having the N word spray painted on their house (LeBron James), or trying to celebrate a championship on the court as a NBA executive only to have a police officer accost you (Toronto Raptors team president Masai Ujiri). In this regard, Black professional athletes experience what W.E.B. Du Bois termed as “double-consciousness.” Double-consciousness is the concept of always seeing yourself through the eyes of others, experiencing a duality of being Black in a White world. Bishop Joseph Walker said, “This reality exists even in 2020. As athletes put on uniforms and are celebrated and applauded as they are making baskets and knocking home runs, but when they take their uniforms off, they literally can be racially-profiled as another African-American person. I understand all too well as a faith leader. I pastor one of the largest churches in the south and here I am celebrated in culture. But then, I can be driving through my neighborhood and be pulled over and terrorized in my spirit wondering whether I, as a Black man, am going to make it home.” As Deadric Williams and Armon Perry wrote, “The problem isn’t just that Black men get killed – it’s that Black families are stressed and strained by Black men’s daily encounters with police. Athletes’ collective strike across sports matters. NBA, WNBA, MLB, NHL, MLS and tennis players have all joined in. WNBA players wore white t-shirts with seven red dots and holes on their back to represent Jacob Blake’s gunshot wounds. MLB players cancelled games and during the New York Mets and Miami Marlins, Lewis Brinson draped a Black Lives Matter t-shirt over home plate. Players are saying: we love America, but America seems to only embrace us when we are entertaining people by dribbling or running a ball. But all bets are off on our way home from the games when our Blackness instantaneously becomes used to criminalize us rather than to celebrate us and recognize our true humanity. The collective trauma is apparent in the tears that players and coaches have shed in recent days. But, let me be clear. These protests and demands are not just for Black players. They include all players including White players who have witnessed and heard the negative experiences of their teammates with law enforcement. Players such as Megan Rapinoe, Mike Miller, and Joe Burrow are joining in shifting from racial equity learners to racial equity advocates, accomplices, and brokers for racial justice. Charles Barkley and Shaquille O’Neal asked what’s next for these protests after their TNT colleague Kenny Smith walked off the set in solidarity with players. After direct action of protests, there is a negotiation, as Dr. Martin Luther King laid out in Letters from a Birmingham Jail. Well, I just laid out the blueprint, as Jay-Z would say.   

[beingrayna]

Oh dear, the year’s almost over

—and I have not written a darn thing on this blog.

This year has seen many pullings-away, from the good and the bad. As a family we are growing more together and more confident in our faith and values. We’ve had our hiccups but recovered from them with introspection and best-foot-forwarding. My purpose, has flip flopped and slid around. I recommitted to work in the birth and postnatal world briefly but have since withdrawn from it. My Human Givens diploma studies have come to a temporary halt—I’ve done all the Part I in-person days, read all the required reading, just missing some online courses. Originally I thought I would be doing Part II, a two-week residential, next October, which is still possible, but I’m not sure I would be able to meet the application requirements. So yeah, that’s on hold.   Toby, conversely, is gaining momentum work-wise and he’s meeting and befriending many interested and interesting people, pulling together a London village for himself. He’s committed to staying in integrity in a messy corporate world which means he doesn’t work that often ;) Which we, the girls and I love, but alas, our bank account suffers. Speaking of suffering, the most suffering I have done this year had nothing to do with health, money, natural disaster, human letdowns, parenting but with denial of a cat. In the summer our one-year lease was coming to an end, but we liked living in Twickenham, Asrai was about to start school, we moved our bedroom downstairs to make the most of our house, we put work and money in with abandon. We thought, let’s sign on for two more years, maybe we’ll live here forever and just pretend like we own it, the landlord doesn’t want to sell and he’s not going to move back. The only problem was feline in nature. My wishful thinking was that with all the work we had done, and would continue to do, the landlord should and will let us adopt a cat. We dropped hints that we would replace the kitchen, we offered a rent increase at his discretion, an additional pet deposit, anything, a blank check, really. He wouldn’t budge.

This is what provoked our feet into itching. I actually slumped into a mild depression after I agreed to stop bothering the landlord via agent regarding pets. The house felt empty of that special joy I knew as a child, having grown up with at least three cats and a dog. I worried that the kids wouldn’t develop empathy as deeply without caring for a pet. Toby suggested we get a cat anyways and lie about it when needed, I jumped on that idea, that is until we realised we would live in fear of being found out and need the girls to lie too. Briefly we thought about moving to another house a few streets away, one whose landlord allowed pets. We gave up on this idea too but the struggle left an impression. I did start feeding our local pub cat, a black and white male named Alice.

He’s not very cuddly but he will eat what we offer and does like to play with the us if we have a bit of string about.

We thought surely we won’t be like this landlord when we own property. Our idea was to use the inheritance money we have sitting in the bank (being used to fund wars, oil pipelines or dangerous pharmaceuticals no doubt) to buy a house somewhere in England, maybe somewhere we would move to eventually, maybe not. That house we would lease to the council or to a charity. Something noble. Toby and I don’t know anything about living outside of London. We looked at lists of cheapest commuter towns, thought about Birmingham because David Benjamin Blower lives there and we like him. Toby was even going to go up there. But really, we weren’t inspired by the areas we could afford. Leicester, no, Derby, no. Then I went to get a haircut. “Why not Sheffield? My fiance’s friend has just bought a four bedroom house with a huge garden for £150,000″ said my hairdresser. I told Toby and he didn’t really take it on, but as things often do, this lead to that lead to that lead to that. It’s a gorgeous little town, very affordable. There’s a two bedroom house on the street we live on, priced at about £750k. You couldn’t even buy an estate for that much in Sheffield. We felt like we needed to buy something soon or we would waste all our money on rent and things we don’t need just because we could. Then we thought, hey, maybe we should move and not just own a property for the sake of it. There’s a comprehensive religious studies department at the university; there’s a volunteer doula training program in one of the hospitals. Toby’s favourite teacher of all time lives there and does a radio show. Everyone he met on his trips up there to look at houses has said, something along the lines of “Yes! Come move here, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.” We almost made some bad choices but have luckily learned from them without having to weather any negative consequences. Putting a ridiculous offer on a nice-enough house in a location we no longer want to live; putting a reasonable offer on a house that is actually dangerous; almost signing a six month lease in an area that would have likely been very isolating without a car with long trips into town being necessary to do anything, even get a cup of coffee. After hearing Toby say to multiple people how he saw himself being in London frequently, something clicked, or maybe unclicked? We were just about to bed and I sprung my news on him. Within the next twenty-four hours we withdrew our rental offer and set up yet another day-trip for Toby up to Sheffield, this time to look at flats in the city centre. Well we found one that I love from the pictures and Toby loved in person, especially after visiting three other flats that don’t quite compare. The landlord has accepted pending reference check, which shouldn’t be an issue as we will be paying up front for the ease of it. Should be out of Twickenham by the end of the month! Other interesting developments Realising we had lost our way, we have picked up our daily “morning meditation” again which sometimes includes the children. We stopped going to church recently and do it at home, at our kitchen table, instead. We sing songs we all know, encourage the children to choose prayers from a nice illustrated book of childrens and adults prayers. Either Toby or I tell a story or parable. The girls have requested that we do communion every week. We usually end with an enthusiastic, plastic instrument-accompanied rendition of “Lord of the Dance,” followed by the Lord’s Prayer known as the Bread Prayer in our household. We hope to find a church or even check out the Quaker centre when we settle in Sheffield but for now we like our way. It’s a little crazy, but we like it. Speaking of crazy we have been vegan as a family since the end of May, a class on the mind-body connection sparked our interest in trying it and the more we learned [Proteinaholic] and experienced the harder it became to look back. (Though Toby is not as committed and gets upset tummies when he strays) It’s funny identifying as vegan because I used to mock them. Zoë and Asrai have reaped benefits as well, all a bit gross, so details spared. I have oodles more energy and can breathe, even when faced with allergies and illness, which I have to admit, I did have. I didn’t want to get help, but when I did Dr. Wu, the local TCM acupuncturist and herbalist sorted it. Ever disillusioned with allopathic medicine and mainstream stuff in general, we have become disillusioned with the school system. Yes, already. Asrai enjoys it well enough, but she likes vegan cupcakes too, doesn’t mean they’re good for her. I realised the only thing that was holding me back from being comfortable with home-educating, which both Toby and I have felt would be optimal for their well being, was me-time. A conversation with an internet stranger whose ideas I admire helped me to see that I could work around that easily. I discussed it with Asrai, we looked at the classes in Sheffield she would be able to do if we weren’t bogged down by keeping school hours. There’s a huge community of home educating families  there. Zoë stopped wanting to go to nursery and I can’t say I mind it. I like being a mum, finally, now that I’ve sorted it out as my divine occupation, and I’m finding my groove.

[collecting-stories]

Home - c.05 - Alfie Solomons

Family Masterlist | Peaky Blinders Masterlist

You took Arthur’s advice to heart and stayed away from London. You moved back into your room at Polly’s and started helping Tommy with the books. Back in Small Heath you were a Shelby again. It'd been so long that the bad parts had been forgotten and you were nostalgic for the life you once lived. But while you stayed away from the city, London didn't seem keen on staying far away from you.  

This was the third week in a row that you found a package left on the doorstep of your Aunt Polly’s. The first had been a dress, the second a new bracelet and the third a lace shawl with flower patterns crocheted into it. You realised that all the items were more from Ollie than Alfie. Most likely the latter telling Ollie to buy you something and Ollie trying to decide what a woman might like. You tossed all three items in your now empty suitcase under your bed, hoping that would help you forget.  

Shelby's weren't good with emotions and Alfie was even worse so there was a chance, you realized, that this avoidance would go on forever. He would eventually get tired of sending you gifts and move on to another girl and you would never forgive him. Arthur, every once in a while, asked you how you were and you knew he actually meant did you miss Alfie.  

"You've been moping around here for weeks now. You going to contribute to the house or what?" Esme remarked over dinner one night.  

"In due time Esme." John commented.  

"I'm helping with the books. I'm not going to sit the kids for you, if that's what you meant."  

"I'd actually prefer my children alive so that'd better not be what she means." John laughed.  

You had babysat John's children only once in your life and they had nearly drowned in the river while you were busy flirting with one of the dock boys down by Charlie's. John had been livid at the time but now it was just an antidote to remind everyone that you and children were never a good mix.  

"You're fine, Esme's not got any say." Tommy cut in, shooting his sister-in-law a look.  

She might not've had say in the matter but she was right. You really hadn't been pulling your weight around the business. It took you twice as long as it took John to do the book work because you were so easily distracted, even by the slightest of things. Arthur'd been yelling at a worker the other day and it reminded you of Alfie and then you were useless for an hour. Tommy knew it but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to upset you further by mentioning what a shit worker you had become. Esme was less inclined not to hurt your feelings.  

After dinner you joined Tommy outside for a cigarette. You sat on the stoop while he stood facing you, neither saying anything. Sometimes when you were younger you'd ask Tommy to talk and the two of you would end up just sitting somewhere in quiet, not saying anything at all. This was exactly one of those moments. You people watched and listened to the sounds of Small Heath at night while you puffed out a cigarette. Tommy stood doing the same thing, waiting for you to say something so that he didn’t have to. Shelby's weren't good with emotions and neither of you were good at talking when something bothered you.  

You knew what you wanted to say. You missed Birmingham. The city had moved on without you and it felt familiar but different. You didn’t belong in Birmingham anymore. London felt like another world though and you weren't sure how you fit in there. Before you'd been Alfie's girl and that was really all there was to you. You did nothing spectacular and you were happy to laze around your house all day, only leaving to go visit Alfie or go to clubs. 

"I think I want to go back to London." You finally spoke up. Your cigarette was smoked down to the butt and you were scrapping it out on the stone. 

"Arthur said he thought you still loved Alfie." 

"I do but...he doesn’t give a shit about me either way."  

"You don’t know that." Tommy lit another cigarette and threw his old one to the ground. 

"He didn’t come after me when I left. Didn’t even bother apologizing for the shit he did to Arthur!" You held your hand out for another cigarette. 

"He's been sending gifts and he sent Kitchen's wife quite a decent sum of money." Tommy commented. 

"I don’t think you should be the voice of reason Thomas." You laughed.   Tommy smiled.  

"I don’t want to go back to Alfie, I just want to go back to London. I don’t fit here the way I used to. Everything's changed...I mean, I've changed. I don’t know exactly what I'll do but I've got some money saved and I can get a room somewhere and find work." You lit up your second cigarette as you spoke.  

"You know I'll give you money, whatever your decision." 

"I know Tommy, but I need to do this on my own. I'm always relying on everybody else. First you and then Alfie. I don’t have any purpose on my own."  

"Alright, well, you need anything at all." 

"I know." You smiled. 

"I believe this is the most we've ever talked over cigarettes." Tommy commented.  

"You'll come visit me in London this time around right?" 

"This time around you'll let me?" Tommy asked. 

"Yeah." 

You stayed another week in Birmingham, seemingly more committed to working than you had been in the weeks prior. Tommy helped you find a place to stay and a job as a secretary for a doctor. You were happy for the help this time around, feeling less embarrassed that your last name was Shelby. You were simply moving to London because it felt like home to you, not because you were running from your past.  

- 

Your flat was on the third floor of a small building and there was a Juliet balcony in the front. It was nice and homely and you paid for it yourself. The job was tedious but not awful. It paid you well and the doctor you worked for was a kind old man with a large family. He invited you round on Sundays for dinner after church and his son was always willing to walk you home.  

"How are you settling in?" He asked on your walk home one night. 

"It's quite nice. I used to live in Camden Town." You replied.  

"Did you? I've never been. I hear it's there are economic problems there. A lot of crime, did you experience that?" He asked. 

"Yeah, it's why I decided to move." It was only half a lie. You had left because of a very specific crime but you weren't about to tell this young man that your last boyfriend had tried to murder your brother. 

"Makes sense." He nodded. He was nice and always a gentlemen; and you knew his father was eager to find him a wife. But he was so awkward when he walked you home that you wished the walk didn’t take quite so long.  

"So I was thinking, on Saturday my father is closing the practice for his anniversary with my mum. Perhaps you'd like to come round for dinner and then go to the theatre with me?" He asked. He fidgeted with his pocket watch as he spoke.  

"Sure." You agreed. He was no Alfie Solomons but he was safe and that was probably what you needed right now. You had separated yourself from the Peaky Blinders and Alfie. Safe was what you wanted, it was healthy and good and while you figured yourself out it was the best you could hope for. 

"Have a goodnight then." The doctor's son kissed your cheek and smiled at you.  

"Thank you for walking me home." You nodded.  

You were so wrapped up in this small world you had created for yourself that you were ignorant of the man across the street, standing away from the gas lamp, watching you walk up the stoop to your door.

Do you see what I did there? @weirdnewbie @sceawere

[gyrlversion]

ANDREW GIMSON on how Boris Johnson could succeed Theresa May

Boris Johnson carries a potentially fatal handicap in the Tory leadership race. Put simply, he is not trusted by Conservative MPs

Boris Johnson carries a potentially fatal handicap in the Tory leadership race. Put simply, he is not trusted by Conservative MPs.

They feel they do not really know him, and that he has not taken much trouble to get to know them.

In their view, he is unreliable and opportunistic, a flawed figure with no core beliefs whose ambition is for himself and not for the country or their party.

Many are jealous of him, for here is a man who has always been too busy – or too arrogant – to immerse himself in the unglamorous, behind-the-scenes work of Parliament, but instead waltzes in and attracts a million times more coverage than they do.

They point to a substantial number of Remain voters who are unlikely to forgive him for leading Leave to victory. And they accuse him of modelling himself on Winston Churchill, without possessing a scintilla of Churchill’s greatness. Johnson is fascinated by Churchill. In his biography of the wartime Prime Minister, he remarks, correctly, that in 1940 many Tory MPs regarded the country’s heroic new leader as ‘an unprincipled opportunist’.

Johnson’s more puritanical critics also deplore the way he left to play cricket against his friend Lord Spencer on the day after the EU Referendum result was announced, instead of concentrating on his leadership campaign.

Then there is his colourful – to put it mildly – private life.

Johnson’s more puritanical critics also deplore the way he left to play cricket against his friend Lord Spencer on the day after the EU Referendum result was announced, instead of concentrating on his leadership campaign. Pictured, Boris Johnson London Mayor wearing a turban Boris Johnson visits the Shree Swaminarayan Mandir Hindu Temple, London, in 2014

The charge sheet is heavy, but as Boris’s biographer, I believe it rests on a wilful misunderstanding of the man. He is intensely and unashamedly loyal to every institution he has ever belonged to, and he wants each to succeed.

He is by far the biggest beast in the Tory leadership race.

He led Leave to victory in the EU Referendum campaign, defeated Ken Livingstone twice in London, a Labour-leaning city, and is more popular with the Conservative membership than any of his rivals.

He possesses a remarkable ability to reach the wider public, including people who loathe conventional politicians. At the next General Election, whenever that may come, he is the candidate best placed to fight Labour.

Like Churchill, he has an instinct for thrusting himself to the centre of whatever action is going on. He will be the candidate everyone else has to beat in the leadership race.

He led Leave to victory in the EU Referendum campaign, defeated Ken Livingstone twice in London, a Labour-leaning city, and is more popular with the Conservative membership than any of his rivals. Pictured, Championships tennis tournament final at Queen’s Club, London, in 2013

He knows that now is the time he must go for it, and he has from earliest youth been filled with the ‘Homeric desire for glory’, which again he attributes to Churchill.

Although Johnson was for four years a keen member of the rugby team at Balliol College, Oxford, in which he served as a prop forward, he is not a team player who finds fulfilment in burying himself in subordinate positions.

The only team position to which he is temperamentally suited is captain. As Mayor of London, he demonstrated his ability to surround himself with gifted lieutenants and get them all pulling in the same direction. He worked them hard, but they enjoyed it because of his ability to understand within about three seconds what they were telling him, as well as his unfailing capacity to lighten any occasion with a joke.

Although Johnson was for four years a keen member of the rugby team at Balliol College, Oxford, in which he served as a prop forward, he is not a team player who finds fulfilment in burying himself in subordinate positions. Pictured,  Boris Johnson made a speech at Conservative Party Annual Conference, Birmingham, in 2014

This quickness of apprehension is an important qualification for leadership. Johnson sees instantly when circumstances have changed, in a way the present Prime Minister is unable or unwilling to do.

But 10 Downing Street is a far bigger proposition than City Hall.

How can Johnson convince his fellow Conservative MPs he is the right man for the job? For it is those MPs who will whittle down the leadership candidates to the final two who go before the membership. And many MPs will be determined to stop him getting to the final stage, where his unrivalled ability to inspire ordinary Conservatives would give him a decisive advantage.

This quickness of apprehension is an important qualification for leadership. Johnson sees instantly when circumstances have changed, in a way the present Prime Minister is unable or unwilling to do. Pictured, Boris Johnson as Mayor of London on his way to a COBRA meeting at 10 Downing Street in 2011

The dreadful truth – and I write these words with extreme reluctance – is for the next few months, Johnson must try harder than he ever has before to be dull. He must demonstrate a new steadiness.

His new consort, Carrie Symonds, a former Tory spin doctor, knows this. Johnson’s severe new haircut is a start, but it must be accompanied by a complete absence of jokes.

It is often forgotten that for several months during his first London Mayoral campaign against Livingstone, Johnson did stop telling jokes. Everyone knew he could be entertaining. His task then was to show he could be serious.

The voters, after all, do not want a comedian in charge. They want someone who can be trusted in a resolute but sober way to apply himself to the next phase of the EU withdrawal negotiations.

To bring those complex negotiations to a successful conclusion, Johnson will have to assemble a team consisting of people from every wing of the party.

He should not promise a job to anyone: such bargaining smacks of desperation. But he must show he can unite the party, which means recruiting people from both sides of the Europe issue, and from every part of Britain.

That includes Scotland, which has been a particular weakness for him. The Scottish Conservatives, revived under Ruth Davidson, fear if he took charge in London, he would wreck her chances of winning Holyrood in 2021.

It is vital that he reaches out to them and shows he understands Scottish politics.

He has already shown that he is willing to unite his party in exactly the right manner.

Indeed, on Friday he posted four tweets that described why he backed Theresa May’s deal, which he had previously strongly denounced.

He did not try to wriggle out of a tight spot with a joke but instead explained the ‘painful’ decision he made, given ‘the risk of being forced to accept an even worse version of Brexit or losing Brexit altogether’.

That pragmatic message was followed on Saturday by a tweet in support of Dominic Grieve, the Remainer threatened with deselection in Beaconsfield: ‘Sad to hear about Dominic Grieve. We disagree about EU but he is a good man and a true Conservative.’

Of course, whoever leads the Tories has to keep people such as Grieve onside.

Losing Anna Soubry was bad. Losing Grieve would be worse.

The bitter sectarians who hurl abuse on Twitter at such figures will destroy the Conservative Party if they take control of it. Boris understands that. As leader, he would be robust enough to stand up to sectarianism in any form, and to uphold the party as a broad church that contains contradictory strands of thought and does not insist on some narrow purity of doctrine.

He can also draw inspiration from Tory history.

Benjamin Disraeli, the great 19th Century Conservative leader, was dismissed in his youth as a ludicrous and disreputable figure. Disraeli never lost his wonderful sense of humour, but he did in due course tone things down a bit, start to dress in a less ostentatious manner and set about reassuring people that he could be depended upon.

For as he wrote in the last of his novels, Endymion: ‘The British People being subject to fogs and possessing a powerful Middle Class require grave statesmen.’

Disraeli was 63 when he at last ‘climbed to the top of the greasy pole’, as he described becoming Prime Minister.

Johnson is only 54, but now is the moment when he has to start showing everyone he is serious, and not just an entertainer.

lAndrew Gimson is the author of Boris: The Adventures Of Boris Johnson (Simon & Schuster, £9.99).

  The post ANDREW GIMSON on how Boris Johnson could succeed Theresa May appeared first on Gyrlversion.

from WordPress https://www.gyrlversion.net/andrew-gimson-on-how-boris-johnson-could-succeed-theresa-may/

[trevorbailey61]

Rhiannon Giddens

Town Hall, Birmingham

Sunday 19th November 2017

Kaia Kater peers nervously out at the audience. Two songs into her short support set and she pulls the banjo that provides her only accompaniment close to her, she feels she needs a barrier between her and the nearly full hall of people who have arrived early to hear her. It has been going well so far, a period of study in the Carolinas has helped this Canadian to become well versed in the American roots music and the precision of her playing is enhanced by the depth and quality of her voice, reminiscent in tone to Gillan Welch. The audience quickly warm to her and the songs have generated an enthusiastic response but she now feels that she has to face that awkward challenge over which so many artists from North America stumble; she has to mention the place she is visiting. She has obviously been warned and each syllable is formed slowly, carefully, deliberately; “Birm……ing….” then the final one, make or break time, they will either accept you as one of their own or the rest of the set will be spent winning them back - “ham”, with the emphasis on the “a” - damn - rehearsed to the point of tedium but it still wouldn’t come out right. She gazes at the faces in front of her; “was that right?”, silence, she didn’t have to ask, she knew it wasn’t. She makes another attempt, slower, the sounds being formed even more deliberately but this only served to make that final vowel even more prominent. With the confidence that she had shown so far starting to look increasingly fragile, she seeks reassurance and asks again “was that right?” It wasn’t but we like her and the word “yes” is heard from different parts of the hall. She smiles, the challenge may not have been met but we were all happy to move on.

It is not just about phonetics, there is also the other Birmingham, the metropolis that forms the largest urban area in the state of Alabama, the place with the exaggerated vowel. Founded in the early 19th century, the shared name is no coincidence. Planned as a centre of industry, its founders wrapped up their vision by using the name of one of Britain’s and possibly even Europe’s first industrial centres, home to the furnaces and foundries that had built an empire. Despite this shared name and heritage, however, there is little that connects the two cities to the extent that when Birmingham England was looking to twin with a US city, its namesake was possibly never even considered. Clearly status was important and a provincial backwater would never be considered the equal to a major British city but there was also the problem that the American city along with the state in which is is situated often appears to embody all the worst aspects of the Deep South. Attempts to break down segregation following the war saw rising levels of Klan activity and the racially motivated bombing of the homes of black families in an attempt to force them out of areas of the city. The most callous and shocking of these was the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in 1963 which led to the death of four girls but despite those responsible being known to the police, none were prosecuted until over a decade later. This was because support for the Klan and its activities was to be found throughout the state legislature up to the Governor, George Wallace, who through the 60s and 70s made Alabama his own fiefdom. Ironically he first ran for office as an opponent of the Klan but after losing heavily, he adopted a hard-line segregationist stance which allowed him to remain in office until 1979. In the years that have followed, it is easy to think that little has changed; Trump carried the state comfortably and the current race to be the state Senator could be won by a man facing multiple accusations of predatory sexual behaviour, assault and harassment of women, some of whom were as young as 14 when the incidents occurred. That he is completely unfit for office should be beyond question but whilst being gay or seeking an abortion will result in hellfire and damnation, using a shopping mall to prey on young girls is something bible belt Christians find easy to forgive.

All this plays to the stereotype of the bigoted, white supremacism of the the south, a place proud of statues of slave owners and rebel generals where cars carry bumper stickers of the confederate flag, the people mocked by Neil Young in the song “Southern Man”. It is part of the story but not the whole one. The greater the suppression, the more determined the attempts to resist and some of the most significant events in the Civil Rights Movement were to take place in the state. It was in Alabama that Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat to a white passenger and also where the Selma to Montgomery marches took place to demand equal voting rights. Whilst politics and structures suppressed their voice, music provided a means through which black people could make themselves heard and tell their stories; the creativity of the southern states being expressed through blues, jazz, gospel, soul and rock ’n’ roll. One of the most distinctive of these voices was that of Odetta, a singer of extraordinary range and power born in Birmingham in 1930 who was often referred to as "The Voice of the Civil Rights Movement”. There were many remarkable things about Odetta, one of which was her operatic training, something she received whilst she was also working as a cleaner at the college she attended. Realising that her opportunities were limited, she found her training was better suited to the folk scene; in the words of Martin Luther King, she was “the Queen of American Folk” and in the film “No Direction Home”, Dylan cites her as one of his key influences. Admired as she was, however, there were few who were willing to take on the same songs and invite comparisons between their voice and hers, there would only ever be one winner.

At about the midpoint of her set, Rhiannon Giddens explains the inspiration Odetta has provided for her own music. Giddens also received a classical training, at the Oberlin Conservatory in Ohio although she was able to take advantage of this without having to also scrub the floors, before finding that she was better able to express herself through folk. Giddens mentions this as she introduces her interpretation of the song “Waterboy”, a traditional folk song that Odetta frequently included in her live shows and the one she is seen performing in “No Direction Home”. It is quite simply stunning. With the accompaniment limited to a series of thuds on the bass drum and sharply strummed chords, the emphasis is very much on Giddens voice and she is able to unleash the fearsome power that the song demands. To a person, the audience sit in silence, mesmerised by the Giddens absolute mastery of the song, the silence held for a moment at the end before the richly deserved ovation. Inviting comparisons with some of the greatest American voices is something that Giddens is not daunted by, the set also includes an Aretha Franklin song, “Do Right Woman, Do Right Man” and as an encore she honours Sister Rosetta Tharpe with joyous interpretations of  “Lonesome Road” and “Up Above My Head”.

“Waterboy” was undoubtedly included as a spectacular tour de force but its subject shows that there is way more there than empty technique. Built around a cry for water from a gang of labouring men working as slaves on the plantations or possibly in a chain gang, its desperation shows how power is maintained through the deprivation of even the most basic human needs. “History in my teacher”, Giddens explains and through traditional songs and her own writing she shows an impeccable grasp of how people hold onto their dignity and spirit in the face of barbaric oppression as well as how they find the strength to fight against it. The harrowing “At The Purchases Option” is based on advert from the 1830s announcing the sale of a “smart healthy negro wench” who had a child of about nine months. When even the youngest children could be sold, the child was advertised as being at the purchases option. Whilst there is no escaping the pain, the song is a fierce cry of defiance, “you can take my body but not my soul”; she may have been abused and humiliated but there is still something there that they are unable to touch, regardless of the cruelty. “We Could Fly” is a tender song about a mother explaining to her daughter how she uses her imagination to escape the drudgery and degradation of her life and see a better future.  The traditional “Pretty Saro” is sung completely a cappella whilst the song “Better Get It Right the First Time” takes a more contemporary theme in addressing a gangland killing and also features a burst of rap.

For someone who is such a charismatic and engaging performer, Giddens has seemed surprisingly reluctant to front her own band. Her recordings have often been as part of a group, whether with her her sister, who provided occasional backing vocals, in the band the Carolina Chocolate Drops, where she first worked with guitarist Hubby Jenkins, or as part of the “New Basement Tapes” that added music to lyrics Dylan had abandoned in the late 60s. Her most recent visits to the UK have been part of the transatlantic sessions that also included those who form her backing band. This, however, is her first solo tour and she seems genuinely surprised that she has sold out a venue the size of the Town Hall. Her set, however, still includes excursions into the roots music covered in the sessions featuring some bluegrass banjo and a cajun waltz. The light jazz swing of “The Love We Almost Had” lightens the tone a little and shows that she can also deal with personal themes in the challenges of trying to share your life with another. The set concludes with a rousing interpretation of the civil rights anthem, “Freedom Highway”, the song written by Pops Staples for the Selma to Montgomery marches. The themes covered in have been drawn together in one last moment of defiance.

The subject matter may sound as if this was a worthy but solemn show, stories it may be important to know but hardly the stuff of great entertainment. The civil rights battles of the 50s and 60s should be part of the past but with white supremacism once again on the rise and receiving official endorsement it is important that the stories in these songs are kept alive. What lifts it, however, is Giddens impeccable musical instincts and the contagious sense of joy that she can bring to even the darkest songs. In some way, Giddens may be a custodian and curator of the rich heritage of black folk music from the deep south but she is also a mesmerising and gifted performer who is able to bring this to life. Her voice stands comparison with the greatest and there were several moments where she used it to spine tingling effect. Alongside this is an instinct for arrangement that the band had were able to rise to. It may have taken her a while to step out to the front but now she has, it seems unlikely that she will settle for the anonymity of the collective and her next visit may well be to a venue larger than the Town Hall. It was therefore a privilege to see her at this moment, the intimacy of a small venue but on the verge of something special. She sang, “We Can Fly”, perhaps she is about to.

[melindarowens]

Breitbart pushes Trump from Strange

The following newsletter is an abridged version of Campaign Pro’s Morning Score. For an earlier morning read on exponentially more races — and for a more comprehensive aggregation of the day’s most important campaign news — sign up for Campaign Pro today. (http://www.politicopro.com/proinfo)

YOUR DAILY ROLL TIDE — “Breitbart bangs the drum in Alabama Senate showdown,” By POLITICO’s Alex Isenstadt: “Conservatives led by Breitbart News are waging an all-out campaign” to stop Luther Strange from winning the Alabama special election, Isenstadt reports, and they’re hoping to persuade Trump to not campaign on Strange’s behalf. “While Trump has endorsed Strange, the president has been conspicuously silent since the senator finished second to [Judge Roy Moore] in the first round of balloting on Aug. 15.”

Story Continued Below

“The pro-Moore effort will intensify this week, when the candidate arrives in Washington to hold a procession of meetings with influential conservatives that he hopes will culminate in endorsements. Among those Moore is slated to huddle with: members of the House Freedom Caucus and former diplomat and presidential candidate Alan Keyes, who is hosting a Wednesday evening fundraising reception. Attendees are being asked to give up to $2,700, according to an invitation.

Steve Bannon is helping to orchestrate the push. The former White House chief strategist has broken with Trump and endorsed the insurgent-minded Moore. Bannon, who returned to Breitbart last month after leaving the White House, has dispatched one of his favorite writers, Matt Boyle, to Alabama. Breitbart has published a number of unflattering stories recently about Strange, seemingly designed to isolate Strange from the president.” Full story here.

— Doug Jones is staying out of Dems’ spotlight: POLITICO’s Gabriel Debenedetti and Daniel Strauss broke down why Democrats aren’t racing to get behind Doug Jones during last week’s Morning Score holiday: While (failed) Georgia congressional candidate Jon Ossoff chose to make himself the face of the Democratic resistance, “Jones has declined to make his opposition to Donald Trump the centerpiece of his campaign.

It’s proved to be a consequential decision in a party where antipathy toward the president is an animating force. While Jones would seem to be a perfect candidate for the post-Charlottesville moment — he’s a 63-year-old former U.S. attorney who prosecuted the pair behind the 1963 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham — national Democrats have largely ignored him. And grassroots donors have given him the cold shoulder, leaving Jones with less than $100,000 in cash on hand by the end of July, according to federal filings.” Full story here.

— Brooks could play kingmaker: Strauss reports that “If Mo Brooks can’t be a senator, he can at least try to be a kingmaker. In the GOP primary runoff for Alabama’s Senate seat, the conservative congressman is being courted aggressively by the campaign of former Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore. Moore’s team thinks Brooks’ backing would give a significant boost in his fight against Sen. Luther Strange, a belief shared by many Alabama Republicans — if not Strange partisans. ‘No decision made,’ Brooks said in a text message to POLITICO, without elaborating on his thinking.” Full story here.

— More Ala. headlines that ran during last week’s Morning Score hiatus: “Alabama activist registers pro-Moore super PAC,” by Maggie Severns (story here) … “Strange campaign memo to donors pushes back on ‘fake polls’,” by Strauss (story here) … “Strange campaign adds top GOP operative to senior staff,” by Strauss (story here).

BIG WEEKEND NEWS — “Trump has decided to end DACA, with 6-month delay,” by POLITICO’s Eliana Johnson: “President Donald Trump has decided to end the Obama-era program that grants work permits to undocumented immigrants who arrived in the country as children, according to two sources familiar with his thinking. Senior White House aides huddled Sunday afternoon to discuss the rollout of a decision likely to ignite a political firestorm — and fulfill one of the president’s core campaign promises. The administration’s deliberations on the issue have been fluid and fast moving, and the president has faced strong warnings from members of his own party not to scrap the program.” A formal announcement on the decision is expected today. Full story here.

— Meanwhile on the campaign trail: Andy Thorburn, who is challenging GOP Rep. Ed Royce (R-Calif.) has already released a digital ad that reacts to the DACA decision by focusing on the idea of an “inclusive society.” Watch here.

Days until the 2017 election: 63.

Days until the 2018 election: 427.

Thanks for joining us! You can email tips to the Campaign Pro team at sbland@politico.com, eschneider@politico.com, krobillard@politico.com, dstrauss@politico.com and mseverns@politico.com.

You can also follow us on Twitter: @politicoscott, @ec_schneider, @politicokevin, @danielstrauss4 and @maggieseverns.

THE CENTER CUT — Third Way cautions Dems to avoid populism, by Debenedetti: “Center-left think tank Third Way is urging the Democratic Party to rebrand itself as ‘the jobs party’ in a report Tuesday that warns of the risks adopting the policies and rhetoric of the far left. Landing as the left wing of the party claims ascendancy, the report wades into some of the philosophical disagreements now dividing a Democratic Party that is further from power than it has been in decades. Based on extensive, three-day online focus groups with battleground state voters, the publication aims to diagnose Democrats’ current problem. But it also knocks the kind of economic populism often pushed by prominent figures like Sens. Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren.

The study, conducted by polling firm Global Strategy Group, involved interviews with persuadable voters who backed Barack Obama and then Donald Trump, as well as with persuadable African American, Latino and millennial voters. Third Way’s resulting document warns that key voters believe Democrats prioritize poor citizens, and some rich ones — but not the middle class. It says voters intuitively see the Democratic party as standing against business, and it urges party leaders to put less emphasis on social issues and “recognize that voters want to see a rebalancing of the Party’s priorities.” Full story here.

UH OH — “Cash-strapped states brace for Russian hacking fight,” by POLITICO’s intrepid cybersecurity team: “A nation still squabbling over the role Russian cyberattacks played in the 2016 presidential campaign is fractured about how to pay for the steps needed to prevent repeats in 2018 and 2020, according to interviews with dozens of state election officials, federal lawmakers, current and former Department of Homeland Security staffers and leading election security experts.

“These people agree that digital meddlers threaten the public’s confidence in America’s democratic process. And nearly everyone believes that the danger calls for collective action — from replacing the voting equipment at tens of thousands of polling places to strengthening state voter databases, training election workers and systematically conducting post-election audits.

“But those steps would require major spending, and only a handful of states’ legislatures are boosting their election security budgets, according to a POLITICO survey of state election agencies. And leaders in Congress are showing no eagerness to help them out. ‘States ought to get their own money up,’ said Sen. Richard Shelby (R-Ala.), who chairs the Senate Committee on Rules and Administration, which oversees federal elections. ‘We’re borrowing money. We got a big debt limit coming up.’” Full story here.

WHAT ABOUT BOB — Barletta will challenge Casey, POLITICO’s Kevin Robillard reports: “Pennsylvania GOP Rep. Lou Barletta is officially launching a bid to challenge two-term Democratic incumbent Sen. Bob Casey. … Trump has publicly encouraged Barletta, a former mayor who is serving his fifth term in the House, to challenge Casey, an anti-abortion Democrat and son of a popular former governor who has been outspoken in his opposition to the president. The president narrowly won Pennsylvania in 2016.

“Barletta will face a primary before potentially challenging Casey: Businessman Jeff Bartos has already launched television ads attacking both Barletta and Casey as career politicians. Some Republicans have questioned whether Barletta can raise the necessary money to take on Casey.” Full story here.

MORE NEW CHALLENGERS (AND POTENTIAL CHALLENGERS) OF NOTE — Hanabusa will run for Hawaii gov seat: Rep. Colleen Hanabusa said on Friday she plans to challenge Hawaii Gov. David Ige in 2018. Full story via KITV.

— Another GOP Senate candidate in Ohio: Republican businesswoman Melissa Ackison plans to run for the Ohio Senate seat, Cleveland.com reports.

— Jerry Springer weighing an Ohio governor run: Yes, that Jerry Springer. The Ohio Democrat told Cleveland.com he’s seriously considering a bid for governor but doesn’t have a timeline on when he’ll announce his decision.

— Garcetti leaves all doors open: Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti won’t rule out the possibility of a 2020 run for governor or senator in California, POLITICO’s Edward-Isaac Dovere reports.

ADMINISTRATION SPEED READ — “Spicer lands post-White House gig,” by POLITICO’s Annie Karni: “President Donald Trump’s first press secretary — who ceded his high-profile post to Sarah Huckabee Sanders in July but celebrated his official last day in the West Wing on Aug. 31 — has signed with Worldwide Speakers Group, the company confirmed to POLITICO. … His first paid speaking gig will be in New York City on Sept. 11, at the annual conference of the investment bank Rodman & Renshaw, according to two people familiar with his schedule.” Full story here.

REVOLVING DOOR — RNC chief of staff resigns, by Isenstadt: “Sara Armstrong, the top staffer at the Republican National Committee, is departing, according to three people familiar with the move — the latest in a string of exits from the committee. Armstrong, the RNC’s chief of staff, is exiting to take a senior-level job at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. She had been serving in the chief of staff role since early this year after helping to oversee President Donald Trump’s inauguration planning. Richard Walters, the RNC finance director, will serve as interim chief of staff while the committee seeks a permanent replacement.” Full story here.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: “Why don’t you tell me what it is, Dale, and quit beating around.” — Alabama Senate Candidate Roy Moore, asking a radio host to explain what DREAMers are during a radio interview.

Original Source link

source https://capitalisthq.com/breitbart-pushes-trump-from-strange/ from CapitalistHQ http://capitalisthq.blogspot.com/2017/09/breitbart-pushes-trump-from-strange.html

[everettwilkinson]

Breitbart pushes Trump from Strange

The following newsletter is an abridged version of Campaign Pro’s Morning Score. For an earlier morning read on exponentially more races — and for a more comprehensive aggregation of the day’s most important campaign news — sign up for Campaign Pro today. (http://www.politicopro.com/proinfo)

YOUR DAILY ROLL TIDE — “Breitbart bangs the drum in Alabama Senate showdown,” By POLITICO’s Alex Isenstadt: “Conservatives led by Breitbart News are waging an all-out campaign” to stop Luther Strange from winning the Alabama special election, Isenstadt reports, and they’re hoping to persuade Trump to not campaign on Strange’s behalf. “While Trump has endorsed Strange, the president has been conspicuously silent since the senator finished second to [Judge Roy Moore] in the first round of balloting on Aug. 15.”

Story Continued Below

“The pro-Moore effort will intensify this week, when the candidate arrives in Washington to hold a procession of meetings with influential conservatives that he hopes will culminate in endorsements. Among those Moore is slated to huddle with: members of the House Freedom Caucus and former diplomat and presidential candidate Alan Keyes, who is hosting a Wednesday evening fundraising reception. Attendees are being asked to give up to $2,700, according to an invitation.

Steve Bannon is helping to orchestrate the push. The former White House chief strategist has broken with Trump and endorsed the insurgent-minded Moore. Bannon, who returned to Breitbart last month after leaving the White House, has dispatched one of his favorite writers, Matt Boyle, to Alabama. Breitbart has published a number of unflattering stories recently about Strange, seemingly designed to isolate Strange from the president.” Full story here.

— Doug Jones is staying out of Dems’ spotlight: POLITICO’s Gabriel Debenedetti and Daniel Strauss broke down why Democrats aren’t racing to get behind Doug Jones during last week’s Morning Score holiday: While (failed) Georgia congressional candidate Jon Ossoff chose to make himself the face of the Democratic resistance, “Jones has declined to make his opposition to Donald Trump the centerpiece of his campaign.

It’s proved to be a consequential decision in a party where antipathy toward the president is an animating force. While Jones would seem to be a perfect candidate for the post-Charlottesville moment — he’s a 63-year-old former U.S. attorney who prosecuted the pair behind the 1963 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in Birmingham — national Democrats have largely ignored him. And grassroots donors have given him the cold shoulder, leaving Jones with less than $100,000 in cash on hand by the end of July, according to federal filings.” Full story here.

— Brooks could play kingmaker: Strauss reports that “If Mo Brooks can’t be a senator, he can at least try to be a kingmaker. In the GOP primary runoff for Alabama’s Senate seat, the conservative congressman is being courted aggressively by the campaign of former Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore. Moore’s team thinks Brooks’ backing would give a significant boost in his fight against Sen. Luther Strange, a belief shared by many Alabama Republicans — if not Strange partisans. ‘No decision made,’ Brooks said in a text message to POLITICO, without elaborating on his thinking.” Full story here.

— More Ala. headlines that ran during last week’s Morning Score hiatus: “Alabama activist registers pro-Moore super PAC,” by Maggie Severns (story here) … “Strange campaign memo to donors pushes back on ‘fake polls’,” by Strauss (story here) … “Strange campaign adds top GOP operative to senior staff,” by Strauss (story here).

BIG WEEKEND NEWS — “Trump has decided to end DACA, with 6-month delay,” by POLITICO’s Eliana Johnson: “President Donald Trump has decided to end the Obama-era program that grants work permits to undocumented immigrants who arrived in the country as children, according to two sources familiar with his thinking. Senior White House aides huddled Sunday afternoon to discuss the rollout of a decision likely to ignite a political firestorm — and fulfill one of the president’s core campaign promises. The administration’s deliberations on the issue have been fluid and fast moving, and the president has faced strong warnings from members of his own party not to scrap the program.” A formal announcement on the decision is expected today. Full story here.

— Meanwhile on the campaign trail: Andy Thorburn, who is challenging GOP Rep. Ed Royce (R-Calif.) has already released a digital ad that reacts to the DACA decision by focusing on the idea of an “inclusive society.” Watch here.

Days until the 2017 election: 63.

Days until the 2018 election: 427.

Thanks for joining us! You can email tips to the Campaign Pro team at sbland@politico.com, eschneider@politico.com, krobillard@politico.com, dstrauss@politico.com and mseverns@politico.com.

You can also follow us on Twitter: @politicoscott, @ec_schneider, @politicokevin, @danielstrauss4 and @maggieseverns.

THE CENTER CUT — Third Way cautions Dems to avoid populism, by Debenedetti: “Center-left think tank Third Way is urging the Democratic Party to rebrand itself as ‘the jobs party’ in a report Tuesday that warns of the risks adopting the policies and rhetoric of the far left. Landing as the left wing of the party claims ascendancy, the report wades into some of the philosophical disagreements now dividing a Democratic Party that is further from power than it has been in decades. Based on extensive, three-day online focus groups with battleground state voters, the publication aims to diagnose Democrats’ current problem. But it also knocks the kind of economic populism often pushed by prominent figures like Sens. Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren.

The study, conducted by polling firm Global Strategy Group, involved interviews with persuadable voters who backed Barack Obama and then Donald Trump, as well as with persuadable African American, Latino and millennial voters. Third Way’s resulting document warns that key voters believe Democrats prioritize poor citizens, and some rich ones — but not the middle class. It says voters intuitively see the Democratic party as standing against business, and it urges party leaders to put less emphasis on social issues and “recognize that voters want to see a rebalancing of the Party’s priorities.” Full story here.

UH OH — “Cash-strapped states brace for Russian hacking fight,” by POLITICO’s intrepid cybersecurity team: “A nation still squabbling over the role Russian cyberattacks played in the 2016 presidential campaign is fractured about how to pay for the steps needed to prevent repeats in 2018 and 2020, according to interviews with dozens of state election officials, federal lawmakers, current and former Department of Homeland Security staffers and leading election security experts.

“These people agree that digital meddlers threaten the public’s confidence in America’s democratic process. And nearly everyone believes that the danger calls for collective action — from replacing the voting equipment at tens of thousands of polling places to strengthening state voter databases, training election workers and systematically conducting post-election audits.

“But those steps would require major spending, and only a handful of states’ legislatures are boosting their election security budgets, according to a POLITICO survey of state election agencies. And leaders in Congress are showing no eagerness to help them out. ‘States ought to get their own money up,’ said Sen. Richard Shelby (R-Ala.), who chairs the Senate Committee on Rules and Administration, which oversees federal elections. ‘We’re borrowing money. We got a big debt limit coming up.’” Full story here.

WHAT ABOUT BOB — Barletta will challenge Casey, POLITICO’s Kevin Robillard reports: “Pennsylvania GOP Rep. Lou Barletta is officially launching a bid to challenge two-term Democratic incumbent Sen. Bob Casey. … Trump has publicly encouraged Barletta, a former mayor who is serving his fifth term in the House, to challenge Casey, an anti-abortion Democrat and son of a popular former governor who has been outspoken in his opposition to the president. The president narrowly won Pennsylvania in 2016.

“Barletta will face a primary before potentially challenging Casey: Businessman Jeff Bartos has already launched television ads attacking both Barletta and Casey as career politicians. Some Republicans have questioned whether Barletta can raise the necessary money to take on Casey.” Full story here.

MORE NEW CHALLENGERS (AND POTENTIAL CHALLENGERS) OF NOTE — Hanabusa will run for Hawaii gov seat: Rep. Colleen Hanabusa said on Friday she plans to challenge Hawaii Gov. David Ige in 2018. Full story via KITV.

— Another GOP Senate candidate in Ohio: Republican businesswoman Melissa Ackison plans to run for the Ohio Senate seat, Cleveland.com reports.

— Jerry Springer weighing an Ohio governor run: Yes, that Jerry Springer. The Ohio Democrat told Cleveland.com he’s seriously considering a bid for governor but doesn’t have a timeline on when he’ll announce his decision.

— Garcetti leaves all doors open: Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti won’t rule out the possibility of a 2020 run for governor or senator in California, POLITICO’s Edward-Isaac Dovere reports.

ADMINISTRATION SPEED READ — “Spicer lands post-White House gig,” by POLITICO’s Annie Karni: “President Donald Trump’s first press secretary — who ceded his high-profile post to Sarah Huckabee Sanders in July but celebrated his official last day in the West Wing on Aug. 31 — has signed with Worldwide Speakers Group, the company confirmed to POLITICO. … His first paid speaking gig will be in New York City on Sept. 11, at the annual conference of the investment bank Rodman & Renshaw, according to two people familiar with his schedule.” Full story here.

REVOLVING DOOR — RNC chief of staff resigns, by Isenstadt: “Sara Armstrong, the top staffer at the Republican National Committee, is departing, according to three people familiar with the move — the latest in a string of exits from the committee. Armstrong, the RNC’s chief of staff, is exiting to take a senior-level job at the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. She had been serving in the chief of staff role since early this year after helping to oversee President Donald Trump’s inauguration planning. Richard Walters, the RNC finance director, will serve as interim chief of staff while the committee seeks a permanent replacement.” Full story here.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: “Why don’t you tell me what it is, Dale, and quit beating around.” — Alabama Senate Candidate Roy Moore, asking a radio host to explain what DREAMers are during a radio interview.

Original Source link

from CapitalistHQ.com https://capitalisthq.com/breitbart-pushes-trump-from-strange/

[dafwords]

An Apology for the Adopted Brummies

A great part of the annual service learning trip to Birmingham is that it isn’t just a trip for the dozen or so of us that physically leave the country. For those of you that support the students with whatever investments you make in their growth, the trip also has your fingerprints on it. Sometimes people outside of that circle have some legitimate questions that need answered.

[with snark] "How was that vacation?" [with derision] "I thought you went on a missions trip." [with genuine curiosity] "So how was England?"

Some of the time spent on our service learning trip and immediately after is spent answering questions like this. I think that the people asking them are well-intentioned. It's tough because there's a tension for the students who take the trip: on one side they sound like they're bragging about service which isn't a good look and on the other side they're not sharing the growth they've experiences in the last week.

In an effort to free them up to do the latter, I'll take care of the former.

First a definition: When we go to Birmingham, we go to do service learning. We don't go to do missions work. We don't go to make it better - Birmingham is already great, thank you very much. We go to encounter, reflect, come home, and then act. More on that is here in Donovan’s dissertation.

Encountering what we do takes many forms. Sometimes those encounters are fun and touristy like a whistle-stop tour of London or chilling in a castle. Sometimes those encounters are talking for hours with someone who took months to cross 2,000 by foot, dinghy, and lorry to finally be safe. More on those encounters is below.

The reflecting time is hopefully something that starts in the seconds we leave a person or place and continues for the rest of our lives. There are experiences from the 2016 trip that still eat at my brain and informed and shaped what we did on the 2017 trip. I would guess that the others who have done this trip twice would have a similar experience.

Then we come home and you ask your well-intentioned questions.

But the last piece is the most important piece. What really matters for this trip - arguably the only thing that matters echoes across our lives and communities - is what we do when we come home. Without that last piece of translating experience into action, the trips are a failure and if I start to experience successive trips that are failures, then the trips stop.

So what did we experience and how will that help to shape our world? Here's a sample:

1. On the first Sunday, a group of students went to the second largest pension in the U.K.  That prison exists in a neighborhood, surrounded by houses, in Birmingham. It's a prison that had a riot just a few months ago and some of our learners stepped into that without hesitation. They learned there that the prison is operated by a for-profit company based in America when one of the priests aggressively started to question them on that issue. Through our discussions after around issues of the purpose of justice, the operations of for-profit companies, and how those real life issues interact with faith, these students had the chance to read and respond to The Black Family In the Age of Mass Incarceration. 2. One morning, we did a coffee tasting with an American expat who moved to Birmingham and shared with us stories of what it was like to uproot a life and just go. This isn’t something that just anyone can do - our passport allows us to enter more countries with fewer questions than probably any other passport in the world. So what do we do with that privilege? How do we translate that into making the world better? For Nate, it means buying coffee grown on farms where workers are paid a fair wage and sharing that coffee with other organizations in the city that share his values of rewarding ethical businesses.

3. We went to London for a day. That sounds vacation-y and to a degree it is. But to call it void of learning isn’t accurate. There’s value in seeing the rosetta stone, in encountering a community where you’re the only person speaking English, and navigating one of the most complex and powerful cities of the world. How does a person know how to use public transportation if they don’t actually use it? How can a person have the confidence to get lost in a sea of people without actually diving in? 4. Some of the students spent a half day helping run a youth football tournament. The tournament was for kids who live in that community where the prison is. So most days, these children walk by a prison on their way to school but for that day they got to try and show the scouts from a Premier League team that they might have some kind of value that would let them escape that. The other students spent that day on the campus of the University of Birmingham cooking a meal and talking with their peers who go to that school. In this encounter, they once again had to try and contextualize their privilege among a group of people from all over the world and had to answer the question “why Birmingham?” 5. There was one day (probably my favorite day) where we split out the group into people who spent time gardening in front of the prison visitors’ centre and one group who cooked in a pay-as-you-can kitchen that is run by the Real Junk Food project. I’ll let the students get way into the details on this but the whole theme of that day was working with food that has ben discarded by society and reincorporating it into the food chain so that it can be useful to people and communities that go without. For the group doing the gardening, that meant turning spent bean curd, coffee grounds, and wood chips into compost for a permaculture project outside of the visitors’ centre. People who visit prison tend to be those on the margins of society and aren’t typically treated as though they have anything to bring to a community. That garden and the way that it’ll be in full bloom come July is a colorful reminder of how decidedly false that narrative is. The students who helped with Real Junk Food did a very similar thing but instead of turning wasted food into a garden, they turned it into lunch. 6. One of the most important experiences was when we sat in a room with 4 men who traveled from Eritrea to the United Kingdom in order to escape marginalization and persecution. Sorry, that makes it sound like they just jumped across the street: they started in Eritrea, crossed Ethiopia where they spent time in refugee camp(s), moved through war-torn Sudan, up through Qaddafi’s Libya, across the Mediterranean Sea on a rubber life boat, the north-south length of Europe from Italy to the UK, and then yeah to Birmingham. After that we got to chill with the wider church community that these men are a part of and just listen to them tell us who they are and how we as Americans have the power to speak into a situation thousands of miles away on the eastern tip of Africa. 7. More on that power. We spent part of the day at an Islamic Community Centre where we went back and forth trying to both hear the Imam’s defense of peaceful Islam and speak into that same power that we have as Americans to affect religious tolerance in our own country.  I’ve never had a Somali Muslim ask me, “Why is Trump doing this?” I took the question as “Why is Trump blocking Muslims from coming to America,” which might have been wrong, but it’s too late now. She told us that they took heart when they saw the airport protests and that they were happy to meet us because they felt like they were meeting real Americans. For me, that wasn’t comforting or something that I was particularly proud of. 13 people who give away their Spring Break to go to Birmingham isn’t a representative sample and so I was inspired to come back and try to help more of the people I know to become like someone who would be willing to show up at an airport or a park or a community center and clearly call out injustice. Or maybe at a much more microlevel, to understand that how we vote (or even sit out voting) has real and tangible impacts on people half a world away. 8. The other thing that I enjoy is when we get to do The Flavours of Winson Green. It probably doesn’t come as a surprise that the people who live in Winson Green don’t have a lot - most families don’t choose to live within 200 yards of a prison wall if they have the means not to.So the people that do live in that area tend to be newly arrived immigrants or people trying to piece their lives together who have been pushed out of other communities. Flavours of Winson Green is an attempt to show those kinds of people that they have value through what they know and what they can teach us. This year we were taught by a Senegalese woman how to make a soup and a Birmingham-born woman who married a Pakistani Muslim how to make a Balti curry. This was fun! But also humbling! How often do I assume that someone has no value or not enough value for me to invest the time and energy into learning what they can teach me? Literally every day.

There’s more too! Cadbury World doesn’t just have limitless chocolate and a 4D experience but also a lesson in how faith, economics, and community can intersect to make the world better. And if you don’t think the suffering that is endured by being an Aston Villa fan is void of educational experience then buddy have I got news for you.

This is already too long for anyone to read which is too bad.

Someone who is a whole lot smarter than me once told me that often times, we don't choose a place but that a place chooses us. Birmingham chose all of us - students, teachers, supporters - and if we don’t translate that into action that makes our world better then we’ve let that place down.