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believingbrook · 6 years

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taakitz hanahaki, 1

“Idiots, the lot of them,” Taako snorts. Even though he and Kravitz are seated next to each other in front of a booth, both nursing margaritas (at Merle’s behest, and for his kind offer to pay for them), his legs are kicked up over Kravitz’s lap as he surveys the scene. A hearty slap from Magnus’s friend Carey rouses him, if only for just long enough to whine about how proud he is and how his little boy is all grown up now before passing out on his wife’s shoulder.

“They’re proud.” Kravitz takes a sip of his drink, a small smile creeping over his face as he pointedly does not look at Taako. “So are you, I think.”

Taako splutters. “I am not! I’m not — no, fuck that, I don’t give a shit about the kiddo.”

“That’s why you give him free lessons, then.”

Taako gives a haughty sniff, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “Money ain’t even a thing. Our old man’s fuckin’ rich or something, and ever since he so generously stole us off the streets we haven’t worried about — about, uh, funds and all that.”

“Yet you ask me to haggle down the price every single time we go shopping.”

“No, that’s different,” Taako says, kicking his legs higher on Kravitz’s lap. “That’s ‘cause the bullshit we find is all, uh, that’s fuckin’ marked up like hell and that’s just — it’s an injustice, you know? A slight against our Lady Liberty with her, fuckin’, torch and everything. You shouldn’t have to kick out a hundred dollars for a pair of boots, right? Unless they’ve touched, I dunno, the gross and smelly feet of Billy Armstrong or something.”

“But if money isn’t a concern for you, you could haggle it down yourself. What are the repercussions of another fifty dollars? It’s a good learning experience!”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna ask the old geezer for fifty extra bucks,” Taako sniffs, then brandishes his drink at Kravitz. “‘Sides, when am I ever gonna go shopping not with you? Lup and Barry go to the, fuckin’, Gap to get their clothes, and Magnus and Jules wouldn’t know a department store if it hit ‘em over their head and let’s be honest here, where is Merle gonna find his floral shirts in the middle of a Macy’s? He isn’t, that’s where.”

“You’re taking advantage of my silver tongue,” Kravitz grins.

“I — okay, yes.” Taako takes a long swig of his drink. “Maybe a little.”

“Maybe next time I should let you go on your own,” Kravitz teases. “See how you like trying to stack up against a Nordstrom’s representative in their ugly uniforms.”

“Absolutely not, I refuse to be seen in public shopping at Nordstroms without someone in at least a suit. Besides, their employees need to shape up and work somewhere else, because bright orange? Really? I wanna know what chump thought a bright orange uniform was a good idea and punch them in the face. Directly in the nose.”

“You know, you could wear the suit. I think you’d look good in one.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, really!”

Taako glares at him. “Perish the thought, bone boy, the day you catch Taako in something as boring as a suit is the day Lup’s finally snapped and burned my Maxi collection, which is to say the day both of us just beef it.”

“Oh, so you think my fashion taste is boring?” Kravitz gripes, faux-wounded, hand over his heart and everything. “Gosh, how could I ever recover from such a grievous insult?”

“Gosh,” Taako snorts. “I can’t believe you say shit like — like gosh and goodness.”

Kravitz shrugs, dropping the wounded front in favor of a grin. “It’s better than my accents, at least.”

Taako chokes on his drink, waving his hand in the air. “Do not even speak of those,” he says, laughing. “Those were awful, you were, what, twelve? Thinkin’ you could do an Australian accent!”

“Hey, my accents weren’t too bad! My Cockney was pretty good.”

“Your Cockney was the absolute worst of the lot,” Taako groans, as Kravitz knew he would. “We were in — fuckin’, middle school, and you were walkin’ around in a tiny tailored suit like pip pip cheerio in the most abominable accent. You’re — you know, you’re real lucky I decided to hang out with you, Kravitz. Got you back on the straight and narrow.”

Kravitz hums. “I think you butchered that first part, my man,” he says, dipping back into his fake accent.

Taako cuffs his ear. “One, that was an awful joke and you should be ashamed. Two, I refuse to be seen with you in public doing accents, I refuse. You do that again and I’m leaving, Taako is out.”

“Oh, are you really?” Kravitz drawls. “Now I think it’d be rather rude for you to just dip on me like that, dearest. Who do you expect to cover your drink?”

“Dearest,” Taako mimics, rolling his eyes behind his glass. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet here you are,” Kravitz says, “ten years later.”

“It’s for the bargains. I wouldn’t get those discounts if I didn’t drag you with me.”

“I’m being used for my financial prowess,” Kravitz says mournfully. “You wound me, Taako Taaco. And here I was, thinking we were friends.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Taako slumps down farther in his seat, heels kicking against Kravitz’s thighs. “I thought we were too, and then you got on stage for, fuckin’ — who were you, Grant-someone-or-other, way back in middle school, and you did that awful accent, who was that?”

“Graintaire,” Kravitz supplies. He’d done an awful French accent. So bad that Taako threatened to Sharpie a mustache on his face and Lup had actually done it. “Les Miserables, Taako. We’ve only seen that movie about a hundred times.”

“It’s just jabber-jabber-revolution-thrust-die,” Taako says. “And that one guy spitting up petals, like, come on. The last time we watched I counted the number — the number of times they, uh, compared his little rose petals to the color of blood, and you know what I got?”

Thirty-seven, Kravitz thinks, right before Taako reports the same number. “Which is to say just, too many.”

“It was a sad scene, Taako.”

“Oh, sure, if you’re a hopeless romantic,” Taako snorts.

“You cried the first time we watched it.”

“I was fourteen!”

“And bawling like a child half your age,” Kravitz grins.

Taako takes a sip. “That was back when I thought something like he had could ever happen to me.”

Though Kravitz is used to his seemingly-random bursts of crippling honesty, this one still takes him off-guard. He knows better than to dig deeper, he knows better than to appear pitying, or react at all, really; but he can’t help himself from asking, “You don’t think you’ll find love eventually?”

“Yeah, perish the thought, I know,” Taako says, averting his gaze. He elbows Kravitz in the shoulder. “‘Specially for you, you, like — bleed romance novels and whatever. Trashy dime-a-dozen novels, I can’t believe you.”

“They were a dime back in the nineteenth century, Taako, they’re hardly so cheap now.”

“Which just means they’re an actual — an actual investment, which also means you should be ashamed. But um, Lup — she found Barry, and Mags has Jules, and once Merle wrapped up the whole thing with Dav’s dandelions they, uh...they put a ring on that and everything, and I figure there’s only so much love in the universe, y’know?” Taako takes a steady sip of his drink. His hands don’t even shake. Kravitz envies him, for a moment; that his hands don’t tremble, and don’t give him away.

Kravitz folds his own carefully beneath the table. “And even if that means ol’ Taako doesn’t get his slice of the apple pie, or cherry, or whatever flavor that pie is, then that’s fine by me. There are people who, uh, deserve it more, so.” Another sip. “I’m glad the universe is investing, fuckin’, flour and yeast and apple preserves or whatever in them.”

“I think you deserve it,” Kravitz says. He wants to reach for Taako’s hand, wants to fold those slim, cooking-calloused fingers in his own. He does not. “I don’t think there’s a finite amount of love, Taako. I think everyone loves and is loved in turn, and the lucky ones — well, for the lucky ones, it goes both ways.”

Taako watches him for a long, long time. Panic mounts in his throat — did he give himself away? Did he say too much? He’s at the point of spilling red wine all over his pants and that would be inconvenient, he just pressed these slacks yesterday, until Taako looks away. “Figures,” he snorts derisively. “You want a happy ending for everyone.”

“To the birthday boy!” Julia roars, so loudly that the whole bar turns and looks at her.

“It’s not my birthday, ma’am,” Angus says politely from his seat between her and her husband. At some point, when Kravitz wasn’t watching, he’d wedged himself between his adoptive parents. “I’m graduating tomorrow.”

“To the graduating birthday boy!”Julia says, equally as enthusiastic, and Angus rolls his eyes at the same time Kravitz does, because she knows it’s not Angus’s birthday but, at the point before weepy-drunkenness, this is her sense of humor. To both of their chagrin.

“To Angus,” Kravitz grins.

“To my magic boy,” Taako says, the picture of disgruntled complacency, and clicks his glass to Kravitz’s.

“So I am your magic boy!” a voice pipes from beneath their table. Or at least, Kravitz thinks it’s beneath their table until he looks over and catches two eyes peeping up at them. “You’re a dirty liar, sir!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You certainly did!”

“Nothing you can prove in court, bubbeleh,” Taako says, and ruffles Angus’s hair. “You trip on the stage and I’m disowning you.”

“You’re not my legal guardian, sir. There’s nothing for you to disown.”

Taako places a hand on his chest. “As your uncle I am deeply wounded.”

“You’re full of horseshit, sir. Hello, Mr. Kravitz.”

“Hello, Angus,” Kravitz says. “Enjoying the celebration?”

“Very much so! Except I know it’s not a celebration because this is a bar and bars are for people over 21 years old, which I am not. Also I found the receipt for my cake in the trash can because Magnus forgot to take it out so I know there’s a real party for little boys tomorrow. Probably at your house.” Angus hops up on the seat next to him and peers at his drink. “Merle’s paying for those, isn’t he?”

“You’re an awful little boy, Agnes.”

“I learned from the best, sir.”

“Do at least act surprised,” Kravitz asks. “Magnus and Julia are very excited. They tell us you’ve never had a surprise birthday party before.”

“I think here is where I should say that that’s only because I’m too smart for people to pull surprises on me, but we both know that’s not true.” Kravitz’s heart twinges sympathetically — Angus’s grandfather could kindly be called distant, and the orphanage was understaffed at the best of times. “Anyway, I’m really looking forward to it! I think Julia is getting me a recording device that I can wear in my ear for whenever I need to be a sneaky little boy, and I’m pretty sure Magnus is getting me a duck.”

“Who knows, bubbeleh, this could be the year he gets you something else.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, I love them. I’ll add it to my collection. He gave my last one a little spyglass to look like me.” Angus pats Kravitz’s shoulder and hops down from the bench. “I’ll see you both tomorrow, I think. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Kravitz!”

“What about me?” Taako calls after Angus’s retreating back, then slumps back on the bench, looking distinctly miffed. Kravitz doesn’t bother muffling his chuckles in his sleeve.

“You’ve been thoroughly outwitted by a twelve year old boy.”

“You mean we have,” Taako snarks. “Joint planning effort, my dude.”

“You just sniped at Magnus and Jules until they let you cater.”

“I will not have my magic boy eating third-rate catering for his graduation party,” Taako sniffs. “That’s a disgrace to the Taako name.”

“They’re professionals, Taako. You’re not out of culinary school yet.”

“Yet I could cook any one of their asses under the table.”

Kravitz laughs, then clears his throat as it begins to itch. “I’m still waiting to see you cook off with Gordon Ramsay, you know.”

“Oh?” Taako cocks an eyebrow at him. “Who would your money be on, then?”

“If I didn’t care about winning? You.”

Taako yelps indignantly at him, sending him into further fits of laughter that break into coughs. The coughs don’t stop, and don’t stop, and his throat begins to prickle, tracing a line of embers up his throat.

He stumbles out from the table, waving off Taako’s worried inquiries, and hurries to the bathroom, one hand stuffed over his mouth. Gods, these fits always pick the least convenient times — thankfully he’s not often with Taako for one of these, but when he is, he always has to think on his feet to explain why he’s taking off in such a hurry. He’d never appreciated improv classes more than that moment in junior year when he’d sprinted out of a chemistry test to retch petals into his palm.

He locks himself in a stall and doubles over, stomach cramping. His frame shakes with coughs, as he struggles to tear a path through the bristling flowers rooted in his windpipe.

A lull, a thin opening and he slumps against the wall of the stall, spent. He tries to swallow and convulses, retching.

“Kravitz?”

Kravitz tries to warn him away and and regrets it immediately, on his knees as petals spill from his mouth, tickling along the top of his mouth and cutting at his lips. He clamps both hands over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his own choking and failing. He’s shaking already, and distantly fear grips him; it’s never been this bad before, he can count the petals in the dozens when in the beginning there was only one, a single fluttering petal he could catch in his hand before anyone saw, but this —

Footsteps approach his stall. “Krav, you okay?”

Panic lurches sharp in his stomach. “Fine — ” he gasps, fighting for air. “‘m fine — pneumonia — ”

“Again?” Taako asks, a touch of sympathy in his voice. Ten years ago Kravitz wouldn’t have recognized it but he does now, the sympathetic pain in his voice. He’d thought Taako unfeeling, back in junior high. “Jeez, Krav, your immune system’s really fucking you over, it’s been, what, three years now?”

“Just about,” he says, words catching painfully in his throat.

“Need anything?”

“Water,” he rasps, because he will, soon.

“Okay. Be right back.”

The door opens, and shuts, and Kravitz inhales carefully. When the petals stay stagnant, no tickling itch in his windpipe, he sits back against the stall, eyes fluttering closed. He needs to gather this up, all the petals, in the pocket he sewed just for this, but first he just — he needs a moment. His head is spinning and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears, but he narrows his focus to the slow drag of breath in his throat — in and out, in and out, a tempo of his own making, unravelled by his own heart.

He scrubs his mouth with the back of one shaking hand, sighs when it comes away streaked thinly with blood. He’s too drained for proper swearing.

Kravitz gathers the petals as best he can, careful not to miss any — doubtless the bar wouldn’t appreciate stumbling upon an explosion of petals — and tucks them in the inside pocket of his jacket just as the bathroom door opens again.

“Still in here?”

“Yeah,” Kravitz says and, patting his pocket to ensure the petals are securely out of sight, steps from the stall.

“You look like hell,” Taako says, and hands him a cup of water. “Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, takin’ meds for that or something?”

“Already am.” Kravitz knocks it all back in one go, eyes slipping shut at the relief in his throat. “Thanks.”

Taako takes the cup back, looking not quite at Kravitz’s eyes but down, at his lips. Kravitz has dreamed about this, granted, but under much different circumstances. “You’re shaking,” he says.

“Vomiting blood isn’t easy, you know,” Kravitz grins wryly. He tries to take a step forward and sways, head spinning. He braces himself on the sink. “Sorry, just give me a second — ”

“Here.” Taako slips an arm beneath his shoulder and tugs Kravitz close to him. “And don’t apologize for that, you idiot.”

The two of them slide back into their seats, their margaritas untouched where they were sitting. Kravitz sinks back into the cushions gratefully, letting his head fall back against the seat.

For a few moments there’s blissful silence. When Kravitz opens his eyes again he sees Taako watching him, a near-invisible note of concern in his gaze.

“Taako, I’m fine.”

Taako snorts, and the tension between them snaps. “Like hell you are.” He slides Kravitz’s drink closer to him. “You wanna go home?”

“No,” Kravitz says truthfully. “I can manage at least another hour, I think.”

Taako studies him for a beat, then shakes his head. “Lightweight. You always did knock out early.”

“Did not!”

“You absolutely did too, my man, do not give me that horseshit. You went to bed every night at eleven in freshman year.”

Kravitz pouts. “I was a freshman.”

“Yeah, but you were still you,” Taako says, and prods his chest. “Nerd.”

Maybe in a different world he’d take Taako’s hand, kiss the back of it. It’d make Taako laugh and splutter and turn him red all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Instead, here, in this world, Kravitz lets Taako’s finger fall from his chest — right above his heartbeat — without a word. And instead of a hundred other things, a would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow? or what time will you be home? or simply, I love you, Kravitz smiles and says, “Guilty as charged.”

They pass the next hour easily. It’s so easy to talk to Taako, and always has been, for Kravitz. The right questions and sympathy are rewarded with startlingly honest answers. Small things, like how his aunt’s roast turkey takes five hours to prepare and he’d made it for Lup, the day before her wedding, and complained to Kravitz the whole time because there was nothing for him to but sit and turn the roast; but big things too, like how neither Taako nor Lup can sleep in the dark, how they always curl back-to-back while napping, like how his gap teeth shine when he smiles and despite appearances he would do anything for the small family he’s crafted right in the heart of the city.

A few minutes before one he calls an Uber, and Taako walks him out into the brisk autumn evening. Taako’s face is the last he sees as he pulls away from the bar.

#hanahaki #taakitz #taako #kravitz #taz #tags to be added in later parts

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100dad · 3 years

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Throw Back: 2020 High School Commencement Speech

I found this Gem while getting my docs organized better. My transcript for 2020 High School Graduates Commencement Speech back in June 2020 I think. The YouTube video did pretty well. Here is the link to youtube. https://youtu.be/7Yu1Kif2qfM

Transcript Below:

The Graduation Speech every high schooler should hear.

Well, this is not the Graduation you thought you would have, is it?

This was weird.

2020. That will be remembered for sure. You are 18 probably. Which means you came into the world around the time of 9-11. A country attacked. Devastated. United & Rallying. But never the same. Never the same.

Flying. Never the same.

Communications. Never the same.

War. Never the same.

Now you graduate in another time of crisis. So much unknown ahead. So much taken away from you. It's not fair.

And there’s a lesson for you. Fair. Life is not fair. Cancer is not fair. Death is not fair. Money is not fair. Relationships are not fair. Being fair is inherently unfair.

We don’t know what world lies ahead for you. A germophobic world that shuts down all the time?

A world that stops caring about disease because we're fed up with it all?

No one knows.

You are entering a confusing time no doubt. Never before so polarized and so political. Your formative years took place in front of a screen. You live in an era of “ I’m right, Your wrong”. See my comments and shares. It means Im relevant.

You don’t know what happens next. Will schools open? I don’t know.

Ya know that could be a good thing. You see, we have a growing group of people begging for socialism simply so a stranger can pay their student loans. They spent so much money getting degrees from expensive schools to get jobs that don’t pay enough to pay for life and their debt. So this just might be the best thing that happens to you…..

Go to the community college or the online program. Save yourself from the burden that has handcuffed the last few generations. Save yourself from that debt by taking the less expensive route. No one cares WHERE you got your degree. They especially do not care where you spent your first 2 years. Or take a path that provides a better-paying career. The world needs skilled tradesmen and labor and there is no shame in that. In fact, it pays well because so many are unwilling to do it. If you have a talent or a knack for business, then get in business. That’s the best way to learn. By doing.

I think in terms of what do I want to tell my kids. Work. Don’t be afraid of work. Put in the work. Work harder than your peers. Work really is good for your soul.

I'm all for do work you love. I'm more for love the work you do. Regardless of what it is. Find the joy, find the benefit. Some people have to do the boring work, the smelly work, the gross work, just so the rest of the world doesn’t have to. Create your own passion. The world needs more people that are happy in their lives, regardless of what their job is.

But work is good for the soul. So never don’t work. I am very okay with you making enough money to no have to work. Then you can work for free. Whatever, whenever, however you want. Trust me that is nice. But work will keep you happy, content,& driven.

That dream of retiring to sit around all day sunbathing eating lobster and sipping champagne is nice for vacation. But not for life. It gets old after a while. Lounging around with no purpose is fun till it's not. Then you start to deal with depression, feeling meaningless, losing hope, and a general lack of purpose in the world.

Be smart, Be intelligent. Please. And let’s face it some of that is DNA. But for the love of all things good, don’t believe everything you see and hear. Every meme. Every video. Every post. Every commencement speech….WAIT……. Have an independent thought. Get information. Get good information. Read conflicting information. Yall…45 seconds on Google, Bing, or Ask Jeeves is not research.

Be kind. Default to kindness. It's not a weakness. People will 100% take advantage of your kindness. That’s fine. Be kind.

Loyalty. Integrity. Ethics. Morals. All things everyone says they have until it benefits them to compromise. Define your loyalties. Define your integrity, your ethics, and morals. Draw a line in the sand. That is the line you will never cross. Even if it means costing you money, or reputation, leverage, embarrassment. HOLD THAT LINE. It pays off in the long run.

Self-esteem, self-worth, contentment, happiness. The suicide rate for your generation is scary. Too many kids thinking life is not worth living. Let me tell you it is. I don’t know if someone listening needs to hear this. IT IS. After all this school-age bull crap is over….Life is good. Know this. You are who you are and that is a good thing. You just can’t see it yet. Believe in yourself. You are worth believing in. Find happiness in your current situation. Stay motivated but find happiness in today. Never ever ever save happiness for one day in the future. Happiness is not a goal. Happiness is now.

Comparison and other people’s opinions.

Stop caring about what other people think about you. Especially your friends. Go against the grain. Pave your own path. Lead- don’t follow. Because no matter what you do, someone out there thinks you’re an idiot or that you're ugly, a failure……Who cares. You can not change all their minds and it’s a wasted life to try. Be a Good person, but be your person. Comparison is a tool for motivation for some people, but it’s a path for depression for others. Motivating -Good. Depression- Bad. Take that 3x daily.

Most of you have zoned out by now so let me sum this up for you the best way I know how that is relevant to 18 yr olds.

Be the best version of yourself you can be and you will become an adult I will be very proud of. In your faith, your relationships, your integrity, your work, just try to be the best, you can be and it will all work out.

Luck, success, good fortune….The odds are more in your favor when you strive for greatness. Achieving doesn’t matter. It’s the effort that reaps the rewards.

Follow 100% DAD on 100dad.com & Social: Instagram: @100Dad Facebook: @100Dad TikTok: @100Dad YouTube: 100% Dad Twitter: @The100Dad

#speaking #speaker networking events #commencement

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lilkathlean · 7 years

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Biography: Spoken Word

My name is Kathleen

My name is Kathleen but that’s not my real name that’s just what was written on my birth certificate

My name is Kathleen but I do not know that name, I do not associate that name as I do with anything else

My name is Kathleen and it is a beautiful name that came from a probably beautiful woman but although it’s my beautiful name it is not my name

My name is Kathleen but my name is actually Katie

I’m sixteen

I’m sixteen and I’ve been sixteen for just under a month and do not have my permit

I’m sixteen and don’t have my permit because I need a physical paid for by the insurance I don’t have

I don’t have insurance because I don’t live with either of my parents so when I go to get glasses or for a doctors appointment at the Walmart clinic 30 miles away it is paid for out of pocket by grandma or on my aunts TASC card

The lack of insurance means I’ve got billions of ideas about what’s wrong with my brain but no licensed professional to get a diagnosis from

I’ve been self diagnosed (and online diagnosed of course) with depression and anxiety and sometimes I purposely miss out on things due to what may or may not be those illnesses

I’ve been unprofessionally diagnosed with Aspergers

Aspergers is a variety of autism in which you cannot read social cues or know the right thing to say at the right time

I have a very large problem with texture and my grandma says that only kids with autism have texture problems

As you can assume I have ruined plenty of conversations on many different occasions

I don’t have a boyfriend

I don’t have a boyfriend because the last one I did have was crazy, lazy, and gross

His mental instability has made me wary of another boyfriend because boys in my town are only racist and hot or fake not racist and ugly and smelly (the last one)

Or gay

My friend Kaleb falls under gay because I feel like when he was being made they made 1/2 of a gay man but then forgot what they were doing and made him like girls instead

I also don’t have a boyfriend because I find other people my age and in my are repulsive, boring, and racist

I get bored easily because it’s the same person always and I was not meant to be tied down

Once somebody shows you their true colors don’t try to paint a better picture with them because you will only destroy yourself in the long run

I am scarily similar to my aunt in most aspects of life

Physically and mentally

It’s because we’re only 18 years apart and she has basically raised me (as well as my grandma and my parents put in some effort as well just not as much)

We talk and act the same

As my grandma says “one of you will lie and the other one would swear to it” which is completely true

We dress similar buying out clothes at Maurice’s, JC Penney’s, Hot Topic sometimes

We both love shopping, cities, and music from the 60’s, especially The Beatles

We both love buying makeup and beauty products especially mascara and eyelash curlers

She has dated stalkers, alcoholics, and the like

Because she’s drawn to broken people to try and fix them and make them something way better than what they are

She says it’s called codependency

Although I’ve only had one serious boyfriend I fear I will follow in the same path

I knew there was a lot wrong with him in the beginning because what normal 16 year old has no life goals, tries to start a gang with his three almost but not quite friends, and threatens to start doing coke when you can’t come watch Moonrise Kingdom with him

He enjoyed getting carelessly high and sloppily drunk and after we were done he posted about me all over social media because the end was just oh so sudden and unexpected

Him and his friends told people I dumped him to sleep with the new kid, which I would never do because he is an ass

Yes they also told the new kid

I don’t have what can be considered talents.

I don’t have talents because I don’t stick with hobbies long enough for them to stick with me

I don’t stick with them long enough because if I’m not instantly good at something I quit

I quit because I’m afraid of failure

I am over emotional on almost all levels especially when I shouldn’t be

I have cried at every live event I’ve been too

Warped Tour because it was my little emo dream to go

Disney musicals because I felt genuinely sorry for the beast and because I also got my picture taken with the cast of the little mermaid

Willy Wonka live because of the song Cheer up Charlie and those Oompa Loompas were just too dang cute

Plaid Tidings because they were all dead and they asked me what year it was

Etcetera

I cry really hard before closing night in the green room as well

However to counteract that I have spent multiple nights awake for long periods of time just laying

Staring at the top bunk letting numbness and silence seep into me

Not crying, not speaking, not even really thinking

Just counting my breaths and how many times I’ve caught myself chewing on my inner lip

Asking myself questions like how long have I been clenching my teeth and why does my jaw feel so tight

Much like tonight

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anyway-i-love-vanderwood · 7 years

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Vanderweek Day 1

✿ Iiiiiiit’s Vanderweek! For day one, I’ve written out my HEAVILY headcannoned version of my Vanderwood’s backstory. Warning for mentions of dysphoria, harassment, bullying, child abuse, and some slurs.

I hope you enjoy!

Throughout Mary Vanderwood the III’s life, they had discarded names, pronouns, and titles like most people discarded empty pens or splintered pencils.

On a hazy, smoke-covered morning at approximately 5:45am, the name ‘Oliver Poppins’ was written on a birth certificate, and an exhausted woman – so very young, too young to be a mother – was driven home by her similarly too-young, not-yet husband. The newborn cradled in her arms was a pudgy thing, oddly shaped as most babies are, with a frizz of blond hair and squinty eyes whose color reminded her of molten caramel. When she looked into his face for the first time, she knew she loved her child. She knew that nothing would ever keeping her from loving that child.

Unfortunately, the heart is weak and prone to wandering, and by the time Oliver was five, time had made a liar out of her. He was no longer a darling boy, but instead became a little brat.

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It’s hard to say that it was her fault, given that she spent too much time working in a small, dingy little shop that sold cigarettes, cigars, pipes and tobacco, and when she came home, she spent too much time cooking for a man who never had much nice to say about anything. Perhaps it’d be hard to say it was her husband’s fault too, given that he’d grown up in a small, dingy little apartment in Birmingham, he lived in a small, dingy little apartment in Birmingham, and it was likely that he’d die in a small, dingy little apartment in Birmingham. Such a life had a way of withering the soul, but neither was it little Oliver’s fault, for he’d never chosen to be born out of wedlock as an accidental child to a couple that was far too poor to afford anything of note for him.

Despite being the most innocent of the three, it was Oliver was the one who bore the brunt of his parents combined dissatisfaction and so acquired the title of burden.

Starting school was simultaneously a source of relief and of eternal torment, as young Oliver was finally given a way to escape his home and the ire of his parents… only to earn the ire and condescension of his peers.

By the time he was in his third year, he felt he’d heard it all. Rat-boy. Idiot. Scabby-knees, smelly-breath, ugly, dirty, filthy, gross, unwanted. The only thing he was fond of was, oddly enough, when the boys in his class jeered and called him Mary Poppins. He went home that day and asked who that was, and his mother – her exhaustion giving way to a rare moment of tender care – showed Oliver what soon became his favorite movie.

It caused him to dream. He wished he lived in that well-to-do house, wished he was rich and happy and had a cool magic nanny who floated down from the sky using an enchanted umbrella. (In his fourth year, he was sent to the hospital for trying to be that cool magic nanny with an enchanted umbrella and, instead, fell flat on his face and broke his collarbone.)

Oliver Poppins was hit for that, and he never tried to dream again.

As he grew, his hair darkened into a deep brown, his expression darkened into a sullen frown, and his skin darkened with a smattering of ugly bruises. When pressed, he told the school councilor he was just a clumsy person, and that they were all accidental. The school councilor believed him, because it was much easier than the alternative, and everyone else gossiped about how he lived in a storeroom and his parents beat him senseless.

This wasn’t entirely off-the-mark, as the entirety of the Poppins apartment was, quite frankly, a storeroom. Mr. Poppins couldn’t bear to throw anything away, so the small space was made even more small by piles of junk and towering refuse. Nothing could be cleaned, nothing could be thrown away, and Oliver Poppins had long ago forgotten what color the walls were, what material the floors were made of.

Perhaps he never knew. Perhaps, to him, it was always soot and paper.

Perhaps to him, the world was always dark and grey.

In his tenth year of school, Oliver tried putting on make-up for the first time.

It was rebellion in its purest, simplest form. Everything around him was filthy, vile. It felt like the dirt had burrowed into his skin, like the hate had clawed its way into the very core of his essence, and in his desperation to tear it all off, to feel something other than vile, he sought out things that were supposed to be beautiful. He skipped class to put on stolen foundation and lipstick in the school’s bathroom, and when the boys who came into the bathroom to smoke found him with shadow on his eyelids and blush on his cheeks, they started calling him queer. Trannie. Shemale.

Maybe I am, he thought to himself as he covered his bruises with smooth paste. Maybe they should have put that on my birth certificate instead, because it’s not like anyone calls me Oliver very much.

Girls are prettier, anyway. Maybe I’d be happier if I was one of those.

After her eleventh year of school, that teenager who wasn’t really sure what or who he was decided to drop out of school to disappear. It wasn’t that she hated school itself – far from it. He was a very clever girl, and raised in different circumstances, she could have become a well-regarded adult. But no one cared about him, so she cared about no one else, and he thought it’d be better if her existence was erased once and for all.

That was, in fact, what ended up happening, though not really in the way that he expected.

Every day, Oliver walked home alone from school, but on a cloudy afternoon in April, her walk was interrupted by an array of bullies. Except, at that point in her life, the people who bullied Oliver Poppins were very big, very strong, and very hateful of boys who wanted to be anything like girls. It was the sort of encounter that could have easily lead to more than just some bruises and a scraped knee.

Except, Oliver Poppins didn’t care anymore, and when someone is that pissed off and that furious at the world, they become a very inconvenient opponent. Despite being outnumbered and outclassed, she held her fucking own, and tore red into their faces with his sharp, prettily painted nails. Fuck them, she thought to herself. Fuck them all.

Fuck everyone on this god-damned earth.

The conflict left her scathed but, ultimately, alright, and she found an alley to sulk in and light up a cigarette.

That was where he found her.

Like Oliver, he wasn’t the sort of person who hadn’t much of a name, and to Oliver, he gave her a chance to discard hers. He’d been watching her, he said, watching her performance in school, her instances of petty theft, and he’d watched her conflict with the group of bullies, too. She was an interesting child. Desperate, homeless, yet very bright, very clever. Furious and fervent – it’d be a shame if someone like that withered away, wouldn’t it? If someone like that died in a small apartment in Birmingham, with nothing to show for their life but sorrow and a heart full of regrets?

Wouldn’t it be a complete shame if he died as miserable, pathetic little Oliver Poppins?

Oliver agreed, and desperate enough to follow a stranger into the dark, he became Codename: Vanderwood.

The Agency sought to recruit people with no attachment to their former lives. It made it so much easier for them to be tools rather than people, after all. They could become anyone, be anything, because they had started off in this world as nothing. They were moldable, shapeable, transformable.

Vanderwood was remade into a secret agent, and for once in their life, everything could be as pretty and orderly and clean as they wanted.

Beyond her desire to scour the remnants of filth and pestilence off his flesh, Vanderwood had no idea what she wanted to be. A boy? A girl? A cruel person? A kind person? An intelligent person? A strong person? A cheerful person? A sad person? Vanderwood took on so many roles, so many identities as she worked that, in the end, his entire personality and sense of being became an amorphous blob. Agent Vanderwood simultaneously meant nothing and everything, and in the end, they decided, fuck it.

A shadow like them couldn’t be labeled or named. They just were. Boundless, formless, completely without grounding or attachment. Their identity was wholly at the discretion of the Agency, and they contented themselves with being a knife wielded by the shadowy figures who hid behind the curtain of society.

At least – that’s how it was, until Vanderwood met Agent Zero-Seven.

They were assigned to be his handler, and from the first time they looked into Zero-Seven’s eyes, they understood that this was a creature with origins similar to Vanderwood’s own. Zero-Seven was a stern boy, sullen, with a personality that fit the numerical designation the Agency had given him. Zero-Seven never spoke of his family, but he didn’t have to, really. It was clear in his eyes, in his posture… He had, like Vanderwood, been raised in a cage.

He had, like Vanderwood, been forced out of his old identity by the brutality of the world.

Maybe Vanderwood felt bad for him. Maybe that’s why they tried to pull him out of his shell a little bit, joke with him some, make snide comments about terribly dressed people on the street and the stupid marks that they were assigned to eliminate. Maybe that’s why they, for once – without really knowing what they were doing – sought to label themselves as something: Zero-Seven’s friend. Maybe that’s why they tried to keep him from working himself to death, maybe that’s why they forced this Korean boy to watch movies from their childhood and laugh a little.

Maybe that’s why, when they found an old copy of Mary Poppins in a bargain bin, they brought it to his apartment, popped it in, and made him experience one of the few glimmers of hope from their childhood. And maybe that’s why, when Zero-Seven pointed at the screen and said, “Oh my god, she’s just like you!”, they laughed and said that perhaps their full name should be Mary Vanderwood.

Maybe that’s why, when Seven finally started to laugh, and joke, and play, they allowed him to append the Third to their ridiculous, ridiculous name. A true British agent needed a posh sounding name, he said! And the pretentious, uppity personage called Vanderwood needed a pretentious, uppity name to match.

Throughout Mary Vanderwood the III’s life, they had discarded names, pronouns, and titles like most people discarded empty pens or splintered pencils. Nothing mattered to them, everything was transient, and the only thing that they defined themselves with was the iron rule of the Agency that they owed everything to. But Zero-Seven – who was ridiculous, stupid, idiotic, yet somehow precious enough that they desperately didn’t want him to suffer – made a mark on their life that stuck, despite everything.

Despite everything, there was one person in the world who said their name with a smile, and Mary Vanderwood the III’s life began in that moment.

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