#vatican programming

[officialurban]

The Vatican and the New World Order: Methods, Purpose and Overcoming Their Agenda

Written By Svali Speaks

Growing Up International

Written By Svali Speaks

[cosmicportal]

[kudzucataclysm]

the new pope being from chicago…

[it-s-maria-dolores-world]

Smiling Thoughts...

When I met you I tasted life Like a bud, I blossom, I breathe Never again would I strife For your love and care are so deep Smiling thoughts of you conquered me In the morn when I make my coffee, When I eat, or laugh you’re with me, And everywhere it’s you I see, Along the road, those lovely trees, At my work with my Apple breeze, These words I’m writing now, I grace Because you put smile on my…

[deadpresidents]

"Vocabor Franciscus. "I will be called Francis." It was a breathtaking choice. Because no pope had ever taken the name, it needed no Roman numerals but stood stark and simple...No one ever thought a pope could be called Francis; it would be like taking the name Peter, or Jesus. They were one of a kind.

"I was astonished at the boldness of it, because the name Francis is a whole program of governance in miniature," the Vatican commentator John Allen told Boston Radio. "He is this iconic figure in the Catholic imagination that awakens images of the antithesis of the institutional church...That's an awful lot of weight to put on your shoulders right out of the gate. If you're not prepared to walk that talk, then you're going to be in real trouble."

Bergoglio had walked that talk over a lifetime. Right now it mostly meant saying no, like keeping his old black shoes, his silver pectoral cross (a pope's is normally gold), and his faithful black plastic watch, or refusing the limousine waiting to take him back to the guesthouse for dinner ("May God forgive you for what you have done," he joked with the cardinals [who had just elected him]). After Mass with the cardinals the next day, he left the Vatican in a Ford Focus -- the security guards had better cars than the pope -- to pray at the shrine of Saint Mary Major, returning via the priests' hostel where he had stayed before the conclave. There he collected his bag, paid his bill to a shocked clerk ("I checked in under another name" was the caption on a widely tweeted photo), and chatted and joked with staff. There wasn't much to collect. He had been washing his clothes at night, letting them dry on the radiator...

...It was lots of those little things. They weren't mere gestures, nor were they calculated messages. They flowed from his identification with the Christ of the Gospels..."We must learn to be normal!" he told his Jesuit interviewer, Father Antonio Spadaro, in August that year, and he put it into practice, collecting his tray of food in the Santa Marta dining room like anyone else, making his own phone calls and many of his appointments, keeping his own diary, and making visits -- always in the blue Ford Focus, without any kind of entourage -- to parishes and charities around Rome, to spend time with the old and the homeless and the foreign-born.

Stories of Francis's personal kindness, impossible to verify, began to make their rounds, like the time he left his room to find a Swiss Guard standing outside his door and brought him a chair. "But Holy Father, I cannot sit down. My boss does not allow it," the guard told him. "Well, I'm the boss of your boss, and I say it's fine," Francis told him, before going back inside to fetch him the Italian equivalent of a Twinkie...

...Francis has become the most accessible of modern popes, almost always to be found at lunchtime in the Santa Marta restaurant, where he has his own table set aside, but stands in the queue with his tray like everyone else. Visitors report that he comes out of the Santa Marta to greet them personally, while hostel guests are often shocked to find that when elevator doors open the pope steps in ("I don't bite," he reassures them)."

-- Austen Ivereigh, on how different Pope Francis was from his monarchical predecessors and how shocking it was at the Vatican immediately following his election at the 2013 Conclave when Francis decided to live in a simple room at the Vatican's guesthouse instead of the luxurious papal apartments in the Apostolic Palace, in the 2014 book, The Great Reformer: Francis and the Making of a Radical Pope (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO)

[evans23]

Hello! May I request Severus Snape x female reader? He might be scolding her for something and even calling her stupid. But she doesn't pay attention and tells him that she thinks everything about him is beautiful...

Thank you 💖

(Sorry for my english)

You're handsome when you're angry

Pairing : Severus Snape x Reader OC

Summary : You are the assistant of Severus Snape. The man who lived. The sarcastic, cold angry Potions Master. And you think he his handsome. Even when he is angry.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : None.

A/N : Thank you for your request ! I'm not used to writing about Snape because, well we have plenty of stories about him and each time I have an idea for our favourite Potions Master, I have that feeling that it has already been done, therefore, I hope you'd like it !

Also read on AO3

Six months. Six months since you'd been his assistant. You'd have thought the war had mellowed him out. That surviving a giant snake had made him more... agreeable.

But no, he was still the same good old Severus Snape. And he was now the one they called the one who lived. His name had been cleared of all shame thanks to Harry Potter. Or Bloody Potter, as Snape regularly muttered.

The potions professor had hardly appreciated the fact that Harry, in order to allow him to be officially pardoned and even receive the Order of Merlin, had made his memories public. At the time, Snape was in a coma, and McGonagall had encouraged Harry to bring justice to Severus, the bravest man who had ever attended Hogwarts, according to her own words.

Needless to say, when he woke up from a six-month coma, Severus wanted more than ever to jump off the Astronomy Tower... but he didn't have the strength to get up; the venom had made him weak, and all he managed was fall out of bed, face down, while Mrs. Pomfrey came running in, scolding him like he was still eleven.

And when Harry came to see him to thank him for protecting him all these years, Severus didn't tell him he was sorry and that he should have let him drop out of his damn ballet in his first year. No, he just told him, with cold calm, that he could put the Order of Merlin in his dark side.

Harry left the hospital wing with a big smile. Severus Snape was in better shape. And he was still himself.

And against all odds, when Minerva had offered him his old job as potions professor and Head of Slytherin... he refused. He had sacrificed enough of himself and life to finally stop thinking about himself.

He had traveled a bit, tried to find his place elsewhere, opened a small healing potions shop in Paris, tamed the demons that haunted the Vatican basements, lived a quiet life in a remote Swedish village where he barely lasted two weeks once winter came, then returned to the UK and wrote to Minerva.

The truth was, he didn't know how to be anything other than a potions professor. After all, he had spent his entire youth being one, and now he wasn't really old, but his soul was, and he was worn down. Worn down by life and the endless suffering it had inflicted on him.

Minerva had immediately given him back his job, arguing that the current potions professor could have competed with Longbottom, given how much she'd had to rethink the cauldron budget.

And two years later, you arrived. You were 33 years old. Not a young beginner, not a dunderhead fresh out of school. No, just a somewhat lost woman who'd struggled to find herself. A woman with her own past and her own wounds, and a recent career change that, you hoped, would finally open the doors to fulfilment, and especially to your dream career: Potions Master.

Snape had of course grumbled, protested, threatened to quit his job, but Minerva had been adamant. Hogwarts was part of a program for young wizards looking for their bearing, a pompous name given by the Ministry to people who had taken a little time to find their way in a world too fast-paced for them, or to those who had had to reinvent themselves after the war, and above all, Severus couldn't quit his job; he had nowhere else to go.

His house in Spinner's End had been burned to the ground, probably by Death Eaters. Not that he missed that hovel full of painful memories, but from then, Hogwarts was truly his one and only home.

When told about you, he had expected a 19-year-old girl, a recent graduate of a school with questionable training, whom he would have to keep a close eye on now that he had stabilized the cauldron budget. Not to a 33-year-old woman, disillusioned but eager to learn, capable of listening, absorbing knowledge, and above all, above all, not talking more than necessary. Or at least, not anymore. After one week you knew better. 

He would never have said it to your face, but one evening when McGonagall asked him what she should write in the report she was to submit to Granger, who was heading this rehabilitation program, he replied that you were promising and that he had nothing negative to say. McGonagall, her eyes wide as saucers, wondered for a moment if he'd lost his mind, her, who had never heard him compliment anyone, but she had the wisdom to say nothing about it.

You immediately found him handsome. Intelligent. Broken. Of course, you knew his story. Everyone knew it. It had been heard all over the wizarding world. But as the days went by, you were able to see beyond the story. You saw the man. And one day, you woke up hoping he would see you for yourself. For the woman you were, not the assistant.

He was tough, but he never shouted. His anger was cold, and he always spoke in the same laconic tone. Yet, you could tell whether he was in a good mood or not by a simple raise of one of his eyebrow. And you knew that after a class with the Gryffindors, and especially with McIntyre, a somewhat dreamy young boy incapable of following instructions unless you were behind him at all times, ready to catch his hand before he threw slugs instead of leeches into a potion that was particularly toxic if the wrong ingredients were added, then he wasn't in a bad mood or angry... he was unbearable. Suffice to say, you watched over McIntyre like a lioness her cubs, because you were the one who then had to put up with Snape until bedtime.

You didn't talk much, always about work, but little by little, you were getting used to each other, and he was putting up with you. At least, that's what you thought until today.

Today had been hell. You'd woken up late, and the glare Severus had given you... you were certain that if you'd still been a student, he would have given you detention until the end of the year... except it wasn't you he gave detention, it was McIntyre for setting his eyebrows on fire. His own, thank goodness, not Snape's. If that had been the case, you're certain McIntyre would have nothing left but his eyes to cry with on the train back to King's Cross forever.

However, you were the one who had to deal with detentions, which meant you'd never have another afternoon free until the end of the year.

Then you had to clean up the mess left by a fourth-year student who, Merlin knows how, had managed to make it impossible to magically clean the classroom. Three hours of scrubbing by hand, hands that were now red and irritated.

And after supervising the detention of two first-year idiots who had thought it clever to slip a toad into Madam Pomfrey's satchel, two idiots you should have made scrub the classroom after a second thought, you now had to spend your evening working with Snape on a highly unstable but terribly necessary position to vaccinate the thestrals who were suffering from a kind of purulent chickenpox, fortunately not contagious to humans.

The laboratory was dark, smoky, and smelled of a mixture of thyme, wood, and... Snape. Snape, his raven hair blowing over his eyes, was hunched over a cauldron inside which a purple liquid was bubbling bigger than your head. Your potion didn't have the same intense purple colour, but after a skeptical glance, Severus had said that was normal; purple could be more or less intense depending on the personality of the person brewing it. So you could easily guess that tonight, he was in as bad a mood as Filch's cat.

You didn't dare speak much. Not because he impressed you, but because you'd arrived a minute and fifteen minutes late, once again after your morning lateness, which had earned you a perfectly plucked eyebrow raise and a:

"Thirty more seconds and you'd have had to find another Potions Master to make life difficult for."

You hadn't replied; your past attempts at humour had taught you that it was a character trait very, very disliked by this man you admired almost in spite of yourself.

The problem wasn't that you weren't good at potions, it was that you operated on instinct, while Snape was rigorous. At least, that's what he said; you'd seen that he too had a way of sensing potions, of embodying them... and of being instinctive. But when you told him, you thought his gaze could have been the first to cast an Avada Kedavra spell. Or that he was trying to get into your head. When, still a little clumsy, you asked him with a crooked smile if that was what he was trying to do, he coldly replied that he already knew your head was empty and didn't want to inflict the torture of confirming it by entering it only to encounter nothingness.

You were busy stirring your potion, lost in thought, when it started to form black bubbles that made the table vibrate. It was when a greenish cloud began to rise from the cauldron that you realized: you'd made a mistake. Instead of using a specter's tear, you'd used a tarantula's tear.

A quick glance at Snape reassured you; he hadn't noticed. You tried to make amends by throwing in some catnip, but it only made things worse. A bubble burst with a dull thud, almost burning your forearm.

In an instant, Severus was leaning over the cauldron, wand in hand, muttering a formula you haven't heard before, and within seconds, the potion had returned to its original consistency.

"You brainless fool, are you completely stupid ? You could have set this classroom on fire ! The castle !"

He wasn't shouting, but his dark eyes flashed, and his voice, cold and sharp, hurt more than any scream.

"Do you want to die ?! Are you stupid or are you pretending ?! I should have told Minerva you were too incompetent to work at Hogwarts from day one."

He went on like this, accusing you of not taking anything seriously, of not being serious enough to have not yet found your way at your age, of not being reliable...

You took a step back, surprised, but you didn't lower your eyes. You were almost... peaceful.

"You can have your little smile... perhaps you'd like me to applaud you for not killing yourself like a first-year freshman ? Idiot !"

He had shouted that last word. His only outburst. Now there was only silence. Heavy. You took a deep breath, then, quietly, without irony, you said to him,

"I think you're handsome."

Visibly taken aback, Snape looked at you as if you were growing a second head.

"Even when you're angry. Even when you're tough. I know it's because you can't bear to lose control. Because you never really had it. You were only given the illusion that you were in control. You lost something. Not a Lily. Freedom. The freedom to choose. The freedom to be yourself. But I admire you. I admire you for managing to get back up and fight every time, after every challenge."

Severus sighed deeply, and for the first time, you saw him remove his mask. Before you, you had the man, the real one, not the spy, not the professor, not the bat from the dungeons.

"It's dangerous... to see monsters as men," he murmured.

"I'm less afraid of monsters than of men," you replied with an enigmatic smile.

And in an instant, he understood. Understood that behind your smiles and your slightly awkward humour, there was a story. A story that was nothing like a fairy tale. Experiences, mistakes, back roads... a painful past. Maybe not as painful as his, but pain is pain, and yours was no less valid because you hadn't gone through the same ordeals as him. He knew better than anyone that you have no right to compare one person's suffering to another's. It wasn't fair. Every individual was unique, every suffering valid.

"Even the darkest potions have a light within them if you know how to look," you added without looking at him, already busy cleaning your work surface.

Severus froze, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know what to say. He was dying to enter your mind, but he wouldn't. He saw no point in stealing someone's memories to get to know them better. In fact, Snape had never used his gift to get to know someone, because he'd never wanted to. But suddenly, you, he wanted to know you.

"No woman has ever told me I'm handsome," he said, before mentally slapping himself.

"Because they never looked properly," you shrugged.

You raised your head, a genuine smile on your lips.

"I see you. Not your story. Not your past. Just you."

It wasn't the first time he'd been offered this kind of philosophical statement, which he found a bit silly. Even Potter had said it to him, and it was after he had seen all his memories... well, him and three-quarters of the Ministry. But coming from you, it sounded true.

"I think you're even stupider than I thought," he said without any sarcasm.

"Oh, you have no idea. If you asked me out for a Butterbeer, I might well say yes."

"Even Professor Longbottom isn't that stupid," Severus added with a slight twitch of his lips.

"So, when are we going to drink this Butterbeer?" you asked, staring into his eyes.

He didn't need to use his magic to know what you were thinking. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like a man. For the first time in a long time, he no longer hoped. He knew. Yes, he knew that life was offering him a second chance to love and be loved.

[severniyalen23]

The Vatican's space program is proceeding successfully

[mariacallous]

Every morning, a line forms at about six outside the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, on West Thirty-first Street, near Penn Station, as it has done (with a few exceptions) since 1930; on average, there are two hundred and fifty people, mostly men in various states of need. At seven, a bell is rung and meal bags—people can choose from oatmeal, fruit, a sandwich, nuts, juice, and coffee—are distributed by half a dozen volunteers standing at folding tables set up on the sidewalk. The food is provided by a group called Franciscan Bread for the Poor, which is aligned with the church but operates independently and is funded entirely by private donations. It’s the sort of face-to-face “work of mercy” that Pope Francis has advocated throughout his pontificate, inspired by the example of the medieval saint whom he chose as his namesake.

I was there earlier this month, invited by a friend who volunteers one morning a week, between his arrival at Penn Station, on New Jersey Transit, and the beginning of his workday in the Flatiron District. Not long after, he sent me a cellphone video, posted by the Italian daily Corriere della Sera, which showed Francis paying a surprise visit to St. Peter’s Basilica, two and a half weeks after his release from the hospital. The Pope was in a wheelchair, as he generally has been during the past year, but he was wearing black pants and a white shirt rather than his white papal vestments, and he had a striped blanket over his shoulders to ward off the spring chill. “Feels like an end,” my friend commented. Those two scenes—of an ailing Pope, and of the long-standing Catholic commitment to helping the vulnerable—point to the two dominant stories of Catholicism in the United States, which have converged in the weeks leading up to Easter.

The more obvious story is that of the Pope’s health. Francis, who is eighty-eight, was rushed from the Vatican to Gemelli Hospital, on February 14th, with bronchitis in both lungs. Cardinal Timothy Dolan, the Archbishop of New York, said that the Pope was “probably close to death.” But crowds of the devout held nightly recitations of the Rosary in St. Peter’s Square, and he was finally discharged on Sunday, March 23rd, after thirty-eight days. He gave a thumbs-up to a waiting crowd and was taken to the Casa Santa Marta, the guesthouse where he lives. Two weeks later, he appeared unexpectedly in St. Peter’s Square (using a breathing apparatus), and the following Wednesday he received King Charles and Queen Camilla. On Palm Sunday, the Vatican released a video of Francis praying and greeting a few well-wishers at St. Peter’s. He looked better than he had in the video my friend had sent three days earlier. Still, the relief over Francis’s survival hasn’t dispelled questions of whether he is able to lead the Church at a critical moment—or whether he should follow the precedent set by his predecessor, Benedict XVI, and resign the papacy, making way for a healthier man.

The other story is that of the abrupt cessation of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops’ program for the resettlement of migrants and refugees, announced in a Washington Post opinion piece this past Monday, by Archbishop Timothy Broglio, the current president of the conference. The bishops have run the operation with government funding since 1980, building on more than half a century of similar efforts funded by other means. The closure is a recent development in a conflict involving the Church’s efforts to aid people in need and the funding of those efforts by the federal government, which has played out since Inauguration Day. In an interview on CBS’s “Face the Nation,” on January 26th, Vice-President J. D. Vance, a Catholic convert, accused the bishops of operating their refugee-resettlement programs, supported in part by federal funding, in order to make money. Over the next two weeks, the Trump Administration began gutting U.S.A.I.D., a principal funder of Catholic Relief Services’ efforts to help migrants and refugees, prompting C.R.S.’s president to announce impending layoffs and a reduction in services. Vance, speaking with Sean Hannity on Fox, sought to justify the Administration’s actions in Catholic terms. On February 10th, in a rare public letter to the bishops, which included an implicit rebuke of Vance, Pope Francis urged them to continue their work with refugees. When he took ill, four days later, public attention shifted away, but the conflict remained unresolved. The bishops sued the government, challenging its “suspension of funding for the refugee assistance programs we have run for decades.” A federal judge ruled against them, maintaining that a contractual dispute was beyond his court’s purview, and the bishops have appealed.

The situation suggests the precarity of a Church led by an ailing pontiff and put under pressure to accommodate itself to a government’s way of doing things. In January, Cardinal Dolan gave an opening prayer at President Trump’s Inauguration, as he’d done eight years earlier. On February 19th—the day after the bishops filed their lawsuit—I attended a press event organized to highlight the New York archdiocese’s work with migrants and refugees through its social-services organization, Catholic Charities. I asked Dolan if he had spoken with the President about the matter of migrants and refugees. He said that he had: “I like to reassure him that, if he’s looking for an organization and for a community of people who would want true immigration reform, who would want secure borders, and would want dangerous people in our country not to be here anymore, he’s going to find allies. And I’ve also mentioned that if you want to kind of dramatically and radically alter the magnificent history of the benevolent approach that this great country has had to offering hospitality to the immigrant—that, to us, is not only against our religion, it’s against our patriotism and our sense of what America is all about.”

When I asked Dolan if he had spoken with Trump about the issue lately, he replied, “He’s got my number; I don’t have his,” drawing laughs. But, if given the chance, “I’d say, ‘Thanks for the good work that you’re doing, there’s some things we’re concerned about,’ ” he said. “We do worry about a caricature of all immigrants as ruthless and dangerous and bad for the United States, where the overwhelming majority of immigrants have been a positive boost to this nation. He knows that: our First Lady is an immigrant—our beautiful First Lady was a refugee, from Slovenia.” Melania Trump actually came to the U.S. to pursue her modelling career, but this was vintage Dolan, using jokey self-deprecation to disavow his proximity to state power and to scant the authority vested in him as archbishop. Surely the man who heads the Catholic Church in the largest city in the nation (where nearly forty per cent of the population is foreign-born), and who maintains a cordial relationship with the President, might be expected to press the case harder.

Dolan’s timidity in February presaged the decision of the bishops’ conference to wind down the refugee program in April, apparently without any attempt to sustain it independently. In the Washington Post piece, Archbishop Broglio framed the program’s demise as a fait accompli. “The federal government’s suspension of refugee resettlement programs,” he wrote, “has made it too difficult for the bishops’ conference to continue operating our resettlement agency. In the past, when government funds did not cover the full cost of these and other care programs, they were generously supported by the faithful. However, the work simply cannot be sustained at current levels or in its current form with only the church’s resources.” He did not explain why this meant that the program had to be shut down altogether, but added that he was “praying for the impacted refugees,” and vowed that the Church would “find new means” to help people in need.

Michael Sean Winters, writing in the National Catholic Reporter, posed the questions that the archbishop left unanswered: “Was there no thought given to meeting with Catholic philanthropists to keep at least some of the work going? Was there any discussion about having an emergency second collection as we do when some disaster strikes? Were bishops scheduled for the Sunday talk shows to make the case for maintaining government contracts with religious groups to help these desperate people?” (Asked to address those questions, Chieko Noguchi, the spokesperson for the bishops’ conference, noted that there is “a special collection that aids in the various projects and efforts supported by the USCCB, including our office of Migration & Refugee Services.”) Broglio’s vagueness invited some suspicion that the bishops had acted as they did to avoid conflict with the federal government while they are in litigation with it; to stay in its good graces as the Supreme Court considers a case involving government funding for a Catholic charter school in Oklahoma, which could radically redraw the lines between religion and public education; or just to avoid the vexed work of opposing a vengeful and capricious chief executive. The vagueness was underscored in the Catholic Standard, the newspaper of the Archdiocese of Washington, where the auxiliary bishop Evelio Menjivar, a native of El Salvador, invoking the example of Saint Óscar Romero, urged readers to abandon their “silence . . . or even approval” of the federal government’s policies and instead “demand that the government respect human dignity.”

Under the circumstances, the morning meal service outside St. Francis of Assisi—with its volunteers, private donors, and formal independence—serves as a reminder that there is another way to give aid to people in need. The Breadline, as it’s called, predates F.D.R.’s New Deal, which set the template for many government-administered social services. Dorothy Day, who, with Peter Maurin, founded the Catholic Worker Movement, in Manhattan, in 1933—a movement that eventually consisted of newspapers, soup kitchens, houses of hospitality, and centers of nonviolent resistance—was wary of the New Deal on the ground that it assigned to the government works that ought to be performed as “a personal sacrifice,” and she rejected nonprofit, tax-exempt status for the Catholic Worker, lest it inhibit the movement’s ability to oppose wars and state-sponsored injustice. Certainly, countless people have benefitted from the vast social-service efforts that the Catholic Church has carried out with government funds. But we are now seeing, in the U.S. bishops’ capitulation, the wisdom of Day’s position and the limits of their leadership at a time when the Pope is unable to step in and affirm the Church’s commitments in strong terms—that is, to lead.

That may be the situation of the Church as a whole. The Vatican press office has confirmed that Francis is continuing to work during his recuperation, which is due to last two months. But the question remains: Is Francis healthy enough to lead the Church? The Italian historian Alberto Melloni suggested that the very question of resignation is an impertinence: “Those who say that he will not resign cannot know; those who say that he should resign talk about things that are not within their competence.” A doctor who treated the Pope at Gemelli predicted that he would recover “if not to 100%” then to “90% of where he was before.” Most close observers of the Church whom I’ve spoken with say that Francis shouldn’t resign the papacy as long as he is of sound mind. Their reasons vary. “He still has work to do.” “He will know when the time is right.” “The right wing wants him dead”—and a resignation would invite the Catholic right to seize the authoritarian moment and press for the election of a neo-traditionalist Pope who could join Viktor Orbán, Giorgia Meloni, and Donald Trump in championing an emergent Christian nationalism in the West.

That all may be true, but it’s also possible to foresee a scenario in which Francis, reaching a limit in his recuperation, initiates a tactful and elegant transition. At this point, he has appointed nearly four-fifths of the cardinals who will elect his successor, and, in the past two Octobers, the Synod on Synodality has enabled many of them to get to know one another better prior to an eventual conclave. This fall will also be the sixtieth anniversary of the conclusion of the Second Vatican Council, which shaped the Church as it exists today. In this scenario, Francis would serve through the summer and resign on October 4th, the day of the feast of St. Francis of Assisi. The cardinals would then come to Rome for a series of meetings, then enter the conclave to elect a successor to Francis—probably within a few days, if recent conclaves are any indication. The next Pope would be installed in time for the new liturgical year, which will begin with Advent, on Sunday, November 30th, and carry the Jubilee celebrations through to next January. Francis, for his part, would look on from the Casa Santa Marta, having shown confidence in the Church as a whole through his willingness to cede power to a colleague more fully able to exercise it.

[reality-detective]

MON. 10 MARCH 2025: UNSTOPPABLE! 300,000 Military Troops Deployed as the EBS Countdown Begins—Unleashing the Greatest Revelation in Human History!

· The final chapter is here. The Emergency Broadcast System (EBS) is set to detonate a truth bomb so massive it will shatter the Deep State’s (DS) grip on humanity. The global takedown is in motion.

· Trump and the Military Execute the Final Phase: Under Donald J. Trump and a worldwide military coalition, 300,000 troops are executing the most decisive operation in history. March 2025 marks the moment the DS feared most. There are no escape routes left. Every move has been countered.

· The DS has tried false flags, financial collapses, and new pandemics to stop what’s coming. But every plan has been intercepted. The EBS activation is no longer a possibility—it’s inevitable.

· Deep State Strongholds Raided Globally: The military’s worldwide operations are exposing the darkest secrets of the DS:

· Ukraine: The Real Battlefield – Coalition forces uncovered underground bioweapon labs designed for mass extermination.

· U.S. Underground Bases Neutralized – From Denver Airport to Dulce, NM, DS trafficking networks and experimental labs have been eliminated.

· The Vatican’s Hidden World – Ancient tunnels beneath Vatican City reveal centuries of ritualistic abuse and financial corruption.

· Star Link: The DS’s Worst Nightmare: Elon Musk’s Star Link AI “Prometheus” has gained full control of global communications. DS assets attempting cyberattacks and retaliatory strikes have been intercepted and neutralized.

· EBS Will Reveal: Robotic Impostors: Evidence proving world leaders were AI-controlled puppets. Secret Space Program: Military raids on DS bases on the Moon and Mars have seized hidden spacecraft. Weather Manipulation Proof: Devices used to orchestrate hurricanes, earthquakes, and droughts have been seized.

· High-Profile Arrests Underway

· Rothschild and Rockefeller Dynasties – Their global financial empire is being dismantled.

· Hollywood Elites – High-profile figures vanishing from public view.

· Media Executives – CEOs arrested for coordinating DS propaganda.

· GESARA Begins: The People’s Wealth Restored

· Debt forgiveness has begun. Student loans, mortgages, and credit card balances are vanishing.

· Stolen DS wealth is being repatriated to fund GESARA initiatives.

· The Federal Reserve is DEAD. The Quantum Financial System (QFS) takes over.

· Final Countdown: The Storm Is Here

· The final power outages and internet blackouts will soon begin as the last security measures are implemented. When the EBS activates, the world will never be the same.

· The DS is falling. Humanity is rising. Prepare for the moment that will redefine history. 🤔

[girlactionfigure]

(1) The Axis Powers’ concentration camp network extended past the borders of Europe.

The Nazis and the Axis powers created a network of 17 concentration camps in North Africa. Some prisoners were also taken to concentration camps in West Africa. Jews were forced into slave labor, starved, tortured, and murdered. Many died from diseases. Many prisoners in North African labor camps were tasked with the completion of the Trans-Saharan Railroad, a project that was never completed. Though it was a French project, the Nazis were highly supportive of it.

(2) The Mountain Jews of the Caucasus were ultimately saved from extermination because the Nazis considered them “religious,” rather than “racial” Jews.

When the Nazis occupied the North Caucasus in 1942, the Mountain Jews of Na’alchik, Russia, were quick to think on their feet. With the help of their Muslim neighbors, with whom they had good relations, the Mountain Jews promoted the lie that they were ethnic Tat converts to Judaism. 

The Nazis took the issue to the Reich Genealogical Office, which ultimately ruled in their favor, and thus the Mountain Jews were left alone. 

That said, before the Reich Genealogical Office reached their final verdict, the Mountain Jews were treated just as poorly as their Ashkenazi counterparts. On August 19 and September 20, 1942, a total of 850 Jews were executed point-blank with machine guns in Menzhinskoe and Bogdanovka.

(3) The Catholic Church could’ve possibly put an end to the Final Solution. Instead, Pope Pius XII chose silence – and, at times, complicity.

In August of 1941, the Nazis put an end to their Aktion T4 “euthanasia” program – a euphemism for “eugenics” – in response to public uproar. The Catholic Church, in particular, was at the forefront of the protests against the Aktion T4 program. The effect of these protests was enormous, especially within Germany. In Hof, Germany, an angry crowd openly jeered at Hitler over his eugenics policies, the only time this ever happened during 12 years of Nazi rule.

By contrast, the Catholic Church refused to publicly condemn the German persecution of Jews, even after the Nazis’ plans for the Final Solution had long become public knowledge. Claiming “neutrality,” Pope Pius XII rejected the desperate pleas of the Jewish community and even refused meetings with rabbis. This despite the fact that the Vatican was well-aware of the Nazis’ plans for the Final Solution as early as 1942.

(4) The Nazis primarily targeted the Scientific Humanitarian Committee because Magnus Hirschfeld was Jewish.

There’s recently been an attempt to reframe trans individuals as the “first victims” of the Holocaust because the Nazis burnt down the library and archives of the Scientific Humanitarian Committee in 1933. The Scientific Humanitarian Committee provided a plethora of medical services for LGBTQ folks, including contraceptive treatment, gynaecological examinations, treatment for STDs, marital and sexual therapy, and other treatments, such as treatment for alcoholism. Most significantly, the organization pioneered gender-affirming surgeries, including one of the earliest sex-reassignment surgeries in 1931. Other surgical and medical services included facial feminization and masculinization surgery and early forms of body hair removal.

What’s imperative to understand is that the Committee was targeted, above all, both because Hirschfeld, its founder, was Jewish, and because the Nazis associated homosexuality and “sexual deviance” with the “Jewish race.”

(5) The Nazis devised of the gas chambers because Nazi soldiers found it too “psychologically taxing” to execute millions of Jews face-to-face.

Early during the Holocaust, Jews were predominantly murdered via machine gun execution. However, the Nazis considered the method too slow and inefficient. Frustrated with the “inefficiency” of shooting Jews, the Reich Security Main Office soon ordered the use of gas vans for murder on a mass scale. The first extermination camp to use gas vans was Chelmno; by June of 1942, there were 20 gas vans in operation, with many more being prepared. Some gas vans could hold up to 60 people, while others held around 30.

Soon the Nazis found that gas vans, too, were not efficient enough. A big problem was that gas van operators experienced high levels of mental distress due to their proximity to the victims. Sometimes gas vans broke down due to bad roads. Ultimately, they simply couldn’t exterminate Jews quickly enough, so the Nazis built permanent gas chambers.

(6) Before the Nazis’ rise to power, Jews in Germany were the best-integrated in continental Europe.

One of the most historically shocking facts about the Holocaust is that it was devised of in Germany as opposed to somewhere like Eastern Europe, where Jews were much less assimilated into general society. Before World War II, Jews elsewhere in Europe often joked that German Jews were “more German than the Germans.”

In 1929, for example, Dr. M. S. Melamed wrote for The Jewish Criterion, “The German antisemites have a much deeper hatred against the Jew than the Russians, but the German antisemites do not pogrom the Jew. They write articles and books to prove that the Jew has no right to live, that he is wicked, that he is dishonest, and that he should not enjoy any rights and privileges but it would not enter his mind to embark upon a policy of murder, loot and rape.”

Yet by 1945, the German antisemite had exterminated 2 out of every 3 Jews in Europe.

(7) The international community did not assign a day for Holocaust remembrance until 2005.

The Jewish community began memorializing the Holocaust yearly as early as 1949. The Israeli Knesset officially observed a Holocaust remembrance day for the first time in 1951; by 1958, the observance of Yom HaShoah had been codified into Israeli law. 

By contrast, the United Nations did not assign a day to Holocaust remembrance until 2005, when it passed Resolution 60/7, establishing International Holocaust Remembrance Day to coincide with the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz on January 27th.

(8) There was one group of Jewish partisans that sought revenge after the Holocaust.

As the Allies closed in on Germany, the German population listed “Jewish revenge” as their biggest fear, owing largely to over a decade of Nazi antisemitic propaganda about how Jews were a threat to Germany. In reality, Jewish acts of revenge in the aftermath of the Holocaust were extremely rare, especially in comparison to vengeful acts from other groups like Poles and even the Allied forces. Jews were far more concerned with finding family members and rebuilding their lives. 

There was one group of Jewish partisans, however, that did devise a plan for revenge. The group was named “Nakam,” meaning revenge in Hebrew. Their plan? To murder six million Germans. 

In the end, the plan was obviously entirely unsuccessful. Only about 2000 SS members got ill with food poisoning, but none died. Many Nakam members reflected many years later and were thankful their plan failed, calling it “a Satanic concept” and “an utterly lunatic idea.” Simcha Rotem said in hindsight that he guilt of murdering so many children would've driven him to suicide.

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and  Patreon. 

rootsmetals

please support my fundraiser for Holocaust survivors living in poverty, especially today as it’s Yom HaShoah 🙏🏼

[yikesharringrove]

steve and billy teaching in the same school!! there's these teachers in my school and they work right across the hall from each other. they're always yelling into each others classrooms.

she teaches english lit 101 and he teaches gov 102

"Harrington!"

Some of the kids snickered quietly when Mr. Harrington jumped at the shout from across the hall.

He stared blankly at the last word he had written on the board, the black Expo mark wiggles from where he had jumped at the yell of his name.

He turned around, sighing exaggeratedly at Mr. Hargrove standing in the doorway.

"Kids, excuse my coworker here." He crossed his arms around his chest. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, you can Mr. H."

Steve rolled his eyes as his husband swaggered into his classroom, leading a line of ninth graders with him.

It's not the first time Billy's interrupted his class with a question about some inane bullshit that launched Steve into an over-excited rant for the rest of class.

Steve's tenth and eleventh graders were already closing their textbooks, knowing their teacher was just about to be insanely distracted for the rest of class.

"The birds n' I are reading The Crucible."

Fuck.

Steve's pretty sure Billy's kids pay him to bring them across the hall for these impromptu lectures.

"Witch hunts. I get it."

"Yeah, you know. Anyway, I'm giving some context to the publishing of the book. The Red Scare in the United States, well, the second Red Scare, as well as the rise of McCarthyism coincided with the publishing of the play."

Goddammit.

Steve's fucking master's thesis was on all about McCarthyism (more specifically, how the second Red Scare was directly linked to the Lavender Scare.) He cited the stupid play in his research.

Billy knows that. They were already engaged by the time Steve began his master's program.

Fuck this guy, for real.

Steve quietly closed his power point presentation on interest groups in America.

"Fine. Mr. Hargrove's class, find a seat. My class, your packet is still due Friday. I'll post the slides after class." He glared at Billy.

Billy grinned right back, his tongue poking out in that frustrating way it has since high school.

"1950s United States. What do you know?"

A few hands went up.

Even Billy raised his stupid hand. Steve ignored him.

-

"Which brings us to the end of the decade. With the early 1960s, we have the reformation in the Catholic Church, known as Vatican ll-"

The bell cut him off mid-sentence, and there was a mad scramble as the students all tried to pack up as quickly as possible, before Steve could keep going.

"My class," he nearly shouted over the scraping of chairs against linoleum. "Your packets are still due Friday! I don't care that Mr. Hargrove interrupted our time."

"And birds! The rubric is posted on the class page! I want outlines handed in on Tuesday."

The classroom door closed behind the final kid.

"You're a dick."

Billy laughed.

"Nah, you just teach that shit so much better than I do."

Steve rolled his eyes. He sat behind his desk, yanking over a stack of twelfth grade research assignments to begin grading. Billy perched on the other side of his desk.

"Y'know, you could just ask me to come in and lecture. You don't have to interrupt my own class."

"Yeah, but it's fun to wind you up and watch you go. And I think the birds like it when they see that you're passionate about something. Why do you think I always start with The Joy Luck Club?"

"Because you have mommy issues."

"No. Because Ying-ying's story makes me sob like a bitch, and the birds get to realize that I'm a real-life human."

Steve scrubbed his face with his hands, collecting himself before facing his dumbass husband again.

"Wait, you said they had an essay due. What's the essay?"

"Oh, comparing the Salem Witch Trials and the goings on of the U.S. government in the mid 1950s. You know."

"So, you created an assignment, knowing that I would infodump all that shit to your kids?"

"Yes."

"I want a divorce."

Billy laughed, leaning over Steve's desk to kiss his forehead.

"No, you don't."

"No, I don't. I love you. But also you suck."

The bell sounded to indicate the end of passing period.

Billy got off the desk, stretching with a groan.

"Would you be mad if I brought my senior class in?"

Steve glared at him in the doorway.

"What's the assignment?"

"They're presenting on the parallels between 1984 and the current political climate."

Goddammit.

"Bring 'em in."

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The new globalism is global labor

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

Depending on how you look at it, I either grew up in the periphery of the labor movement, or atop it, or surrounded by it. For a kid, labor issues don't really hold a lot of urgency – in places with mature labor movements, kids don't really have jobs, and the part-time jobs I had as a kid (paper route, cleaning a dance studio) were pretty benign.

Ironically, one of the reasons that labor issues barely registered for me as a kid was that my parents were in great, strong unions: Ontario teachers' unions, which protected teachers from exploitative working conditions and from retaliation when they advocated for their students, striking for better schools as well as better working conditions.

Ontario teachers' unions were strong enough that they could take the lead on workplace organization, to the benefit of teachers at every part of their careers, as well as students and the system as a whole. Back in the early 1980s, Ontario schools faced a demographic crisis. After years of declining enrollment, the number of students entering the system was rapidly increasing.

That meant that each level of the system – primary, junior, secondary – was about to go through a whipsaw, in which low numbers of students would be followed by large numbers. For a unionized education workforce, this presented a crisis: normally, a severe contraction in student numbers would trigger layoffs, on a last-in, first-out basis. That meant that layoffs loomed for junior teachers, who would almost certainly end up retraining for another career. When student numbers picked up again, those teachers wouldn't be in the workforce anymore, and worse, a lot of the senior teachers who got priority during layoffs would be retiring, magnifying the crisis.

The teachers' unions were strong, and they cared about students and teachers, both those at the start of their careers and those who'd given many years of service. They came up with an amazing solution: "self-funded sabbaticals." Teachers with a set number of years of seniority could choose to take four years at 80% salary, and get a fifth year off at 80% salary (actually, they could take their year off any time from the third year on).

This allowed Ontario to increase its workforce by about 20%, for free. Senior teachers got a year off to spend with their families, or on continuing education, or for travel. Junior teachers' jobs were protected. Students coming into the system had adequate classroom staff, in a mix of both senior and junior teachers.

This worked great for everyone, including my family. My parents both took their four-over-five year in 1983/84. They rented out our house for six months, charging enough to cover the mortgage. We flew to London, took a ferry to France, and leased a little sedan. For the next six months, we drove around Europe, visiting fourteen countries while my parents homeschooled us on the long highway stretches and in laundromats. We stayed in youth hostels and took a train to Leningrad to visit my family there. We saw Christmas Midnight Mass at the Vatican and walked around the Parthenon. We saw Guernica at the Prado. We visited a computer lab in Paris and I learned to program Logo in French. We hung out with my parents' teacher pals who were civilian educators at a Canadian Forces Base in Baden-Baden. I bought an amazing hand-carved chess set in Seville with medieval motifs that sung to my D&D playing heart. It was amazing.

No, really, it was amazing. Unions and the social contract they bargained for transformed my family's life chances. My dad came to Canada as a refugee, the son of a teen mother who'd been deeply traumatized by her civil defense service as a child during the Siege of Leningrad. My mother was the eldest child of a man who, at thirteen, had dropped out of school to support his nine brothers and sisters after the death of his father. My parents grew up to not only own a home, but to be able to take their sons on a latter-day version of the Grand Tour that was once the exclusive province of weak-chinned toffs from the uppermost of crusts:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Tour

My parents were active in labor causes and in their unions, of course, but that was just part of their activist lives. My mother was a leader in the fight for legal abortion rights in Canada:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/8882641733

My dad was active in party politics with the New Democratic Party, and both he and my mother were deeply involved with the fight against nuclear arms proliferation, a major issue in Canada, given our role in supplying radioisotopes to the US, building key components for ICBMs, testing cruise missiles over Labrador, and our participation in NORAD.

Abortion rights and nuclear arms proliferation were my own entry into political activism. When I was 13, I organized a large contingent from my school to march on Queen's Park, the seat of the Provincial Parliament, to demand an end to Ontario's active and critical participation in the hastening of global nuclear conflagration:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53616011737/

When I got a little older, I started helping with clinic defense and counterprotests at the Morgentaler Clinic and other sites in Toronto that provided safe access to women's health, including abortions:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/morgentaler-honoured-by-order-of-canada-federal-government-not-involved-1.716775

My teens were a period of deepening involvement in politics. It was hard work, but rewarding and fundamentally hopeful. There, in the shadow of imminent nuclear armageddon, there was a role for me to play, a way to be more than a passive passenger on a runaway train, to participate in the effort to pull the brake lever before we ran over the cliff.

In hindsight, though, I can see that even as my activism intensified, it also got harder. We struggled more to find places to meet, to find phones and computers to use, to find people who could explain how to get a permit for a demonstration or to get legal assistance for comrades in jail after a civil disobedience action.

What I couldn't see at the time was that all of this was provided by organized labor. The labor movement had the halls, the photocopiers, the lawyers, the experience – the infrastructure. Even for campaigns that were directly about labor rights – campaigns for abortion rights, or against nuclear annihilation – the labor movement was the material, tangible base for our activities.

Look, riding a bicycle around all night wheatpasting posters to telephone poles to turn out people for an upcoming demonstration is hard work, but it's much harder if you have to pay for xeroxing at Kinko's rather than getting it for free at the union hall. Worse, the demonstration turnout suffers more because the union phone-trees and newsletters stop bringing out the numbers they once brought out.

This was why the neoliberal project took such savage aim at labor: they understood that a strong labor movement was foundation of antiimperialist, antiracist, antisexist struggles for justice. By dismantling labor, the ruling class kicked the legs out from under all the other fights that mattered.

Every year, it got harder to fight for any kind of better world. We activist kids grew to our twenties and foundered, spending precious hours searching for a room to hold a meeting, leaving us with fewer hours to spend organizing the thing we were meeting for. But gradually, we rebuilt. We started to stand up our own fragile, brittle, nascent structures that stood in for the mature and solid labor foundation that we'd grown up with.

The first time I got an inkling of what was going on came in 1999, with the Battle of Seattle: the mass protests over the WTO. Yes, labor turned out in force for those mass demonstrations, but they weren't its leaders. The militancy, the leadership, and the organization came out of groups that could loosely be called "post-labor" – not in the sense that they no longer believed in labor causes, but in the sense that they were being organized outside of traditional labor.

Labor was in retreat. Five years earlier, organized labor had responded to NAFTA by organizing against Mexican workers, rather than the bosses who wanted to ship jobs to Mexico. It wasn't unusual to see cars in Ontario with CAW bumper stickers alongside xenophobic stickers taking aim at Mexicans, not bosses. Those were the only workers that organized labor saw as competitors for labor rights: this was also the heyday of "two-tier" contracts, which protected benefits for senior workers while leaving their junior comrades exposed to bosses' most sadistic practices, while still expecting junior workers to pay dues to a union that wouldn't protect them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/25/strikesgiving/#shed-a-tier

Two-tier contracts were the opposite of the solidarity that my parents' teachers' union exhibited in the early 1980s; blaming Mexican workers for automakers' offshoring was the opposite of the solidarity that built transracial and international labor power in the early days of the union movement:

https://unionhall.aflcio.org/bloomington-normal-trades-and-labor-assembly/labor-culture/edge-anarchy-first-class-pullman-strike

As labor withered under a sustained, multi-decades-long assault on workers' rights, other movements started to recapitulate the evolution of early labor, shoring up fragile movements that lacked legal protections, weathering setbacks, and building a "progressive" coalition that encompassed numerous issues. And then that movement started to support a new wave of labor organizing, situating labor issues on a continuum of justice questions, from race to gender to predatory college lending.

Young workers from every sector joined ossified unions with corrupt, sellout leaders and helped engineer their ouster, turning these dying old unions into engines of successful labor militancy:

https://theintercept.com/2023/04/07/deconstructed-union-dhl-teamsters-uaw/

In other words, we're in the midst of a reversal of the historic role of labor and other social justice movements. Whereas once labor anchored a large collection of smaller, less unified social movements; today those social movements are helping bring back a weakened and fragmented labor movement.

One of the key organizing questions for today is whether these two movements can continue to co-evolve and, eventually, merge. For example: there can be no successful climate action without climate justice. The least paid workers in America are also the most racially disfavored. The gender pay-gap exists in all labor markets. For labor, integrating social justice questions isn't just morally sound, it's also tactically necessary.

One thing such a fusion can produce is a truly international labor movement. Today, social justice movements are transnational: the successful Irish campaign for abortion rights was closely linked to key abortion rights struggles in Argentina and Poland, and today, abortion rights organizers from all over the world are involved in mailing medication abortion pills to America.

A global labor movement is necessary, and not just to defeat the divide-and-rule tactics of the NAFTA fight. The WTO's legacy is a firmly global capitalism: workers all over the world are fighting the same corporations. The strong unions of one country are threatened by weak labor in other countries where their key corporations seek to shift manufacturing or service delivery. But those same strong unions are able to use their power to help their comrades abroad protect their labor rights, depriving their common adversary of an easily exploited workforce.

A key recent example is Mercedes, part of the Daimler global octopus. Mercedes' home turf is Germany, which boasts some of the strongest autoworker unions in the world. In the USA, Mercedes – like other German auto giants – preferentially manufactures its cars in the South, America's "onshore-offshore" crime havens, where labor laws are both virtually nonexistent and largely unenforced. This allows Mercedes to exploit and endanger a largely Black workforce in a "right to work" territory where unions are nearly impossible to form and sustain.

Mercedes just defeated a hard-fought union drive in Vance, Alabama. In part, this was due to admitted tactical blunders from the UAW, who have recently racked up unprecedented victories in Tennessee and North Carolina:

https://paydayreport.com/uaw-admits-digital-heavy-organizing-committee-light-approach-failed-them-in-alabama-at-mercedes/

But mostly, this was because Mercedes cheated. They flagrantly violated labor law to sabotage the union vote. That's where it gets interesting. German workers have successfully lobbied the German parliament for the Supply Chain Act, an anticorruption law that punishes German companies that violate labor law abroad. That means that even though the UAW just lost their election, they might inflict some serious pain on Mercedes, who face a fine of 2% of their global annual revenue, and a ban on selling cars to the German government:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

This is another way reversal of the post-neoliberal era. Whereas once the US exported its most rapacious corporate practices all over the world, today, global labor stands a chance of exporting workers' rights from weak territories to strong ones.

Here's an American analogy: the US's two most populous states are California and Texas. The policies of these states ripple out over the whole country, and even beyond. When Texas requires textbooks that ban evolution, every pupil in the country is at risk of getting a textbook that embraces Young Earth Creationism. When California enacts strict emission standards, every car in the country gets cleaner tailpipes. The WTO was a Texas-style export: a race to the bottom, all around the world. The moment we're living through now, as global social movements fuse with global labor, are a California-style export, a race to the top.

This is a weird upside to global monopoly capitalism. It's how antitrust regulators all over the world are taking on corporations whose power rivals global superpowers like the USA and China: because they're all fighting the same corporations, they can share tactics and even recycle evidence from one-another's antitrust cases:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2024/05/big-tech-eu-drop-dead

Look, the UAW messed up in Alabama. A successful union vote is won before the first ballot is cast. If your ground game isn't strong enough to know the outcome of the vote before the ballot box opens, you need more organizing, not a vote:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

But thanks to global labor – and its enemy, global capitalism – the UAW gets another chance. Global capitalism is rich and powerful, but it has key weaknesses. Its drive to "efficiency" makes it terribly vulnerable, and a disruption anywhere in its supply chain can bring the whole global empire to its knees:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

American workers – especially swing-state workers who swung for Trump and are leaning his way again – overwhelmingly support a pro-labor agenda. They are furious over "price gouging and outrageous corporate profits…wealthy corporate CEOs and billionaires [not] paying what they should in taxes and the top 1% gaming the system":

https://www.americanfamilyvoices.org/_files/ugd/d4d64f_6c3dff0c3da74098b07ed3f086705af2.pdf

They support universal healthcare, and value Medicare and Social Security, and trust the Democrats to manage both better than Republicans will. They support "abortion rights, affordable child care, and even forgiving student loans":

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-05-20-bidens-working-class-slump/

The problem is that these blue-collar voters are atomized. They no longer meet in union halls – they belong to gun clubs affiliated with the NRA. There are enough people who are a) undecided and b) union members in these swing states to defeat Trump. This is why labor power matters, and why a fusion of American labor and social justice movements matters – and why an international fusion of a labor-social justice coalition is our best hope for a habitable planet and a decent lives for our families.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/20/a-common-foe/#the-multinational-playbook

[benitez-my-beloved]

Thinking about Pope Innocents first winter in the Vatican

♥️ 🧣🤍 ♥️ 🧣🤍

He would invite children from a local community outreach program to enjoy some hot coco and play in the snow together

Maybe they make a snowman and throw snowballs at each other (Cardinals vs children) (a soaking wet ray is the referee) (the children win! but Vincent goes viral for his snowball efficiency)

He tells them the story of Christ and how to love one another. He listens as they speak about their experiences and difficulties. For many, it’s the first time they’re able to be this open to another adult

He donates a significant portion to their charity, and shares the plight of children with difficult home lives to the masses

Vincent and his children <3

[aloysiavirgata]

Loved your Skinner POV. I am the ultimate sucker for a Margaret Scully POV. Do one? *doe eyes*

Cancer. How can it be cancer, how can Fox already have been at the hospital, how can they plot and whisper and conspire; how can Dana have cancer?

Margaret is so angry and so afraid. So, so angry.

Terrified.

She has the wild, insane thought that Dana is too beautiful to have cancer, as though Melissa hadn’t been too beautiful to be casually murdered.

Fox looming and lurking in hallways and corners and sunsets and pre-dawn stillness. Like a grim guardian angel, like the beautiful statue of Lucifer Bill once took her to see at Liège.

Margaret sees Fox kiss her daughter’s bright hair one night, kiss her daughter’s sad, smiling mouth.

She doesn’t know what she wants for them. She crosses herself and walks away.

***

She doesn’t understand the situation with Emily, not really. She listens to everything Dana says about induced hyperovulation and surrogates and she nodded, dutiful, because she can hear Dana’s throat so tight, trying not to cry.

Emily is very sick, Dana says. The courts have no precedence for this, Dana says. I want to help her, Mom.

If Emily is Dana’s, if she really is, then she’s Margaret’s granddaughter and Margaret, to her shame, doesn’t want her to be.

Fox stands in the corner of the room, staring out the window at nothing, his jaw hard as stone. He radiates a quiet steadiness and Margaret feels her strange, lovely daughter draw strength from it, like a solar panel on a bright day. Are there lunar panels? Mulder’s eyes are nothing like the sun.

He radiates a cold fury and Margaret almost has pity for the target of it.

“When I was abducted by Duane Barry,” Dana begins, her voice mostly steady. “Wherever he took me had some kind of program where-“

Fox slams his fist into the windowframe and Margaret jumps, gasps. “Fox!”

“Mulder…” Dana breathes, her eyes closed.

He stalks from the room like a panther. Like an assassin.

***

“I’m pregnant,” Dana says, a little blushing laugh. Her hand splays over her flat belly.

Margaret surges with such piercing love for this incomprehensible child she birthed. “Oh honey,” she breathes.

Dana drops her head to the side, cheek to shoulder. “I’m so tired already,” she confesses. “I don’t know how you had four with Daddy away.”

She reaches for her daughter’s slim fingers. “I wanted five. Eight, if we could have. Three miscarriages after Charlie and then….” she is appalled at herself. “Dana, I’m so-“

Dana squeezes her mother’s hand. “Miscarriages aren’t some kind of thought virus, Mom.”

Margaret squeezes her hand back. “I know, I know. It just feels like bad luck. And Fox, will he be….?”

Dana looks up, a flush high in her cheeks. “Why are you bringing Mulder up?”

Margaret rolls her eyes. ““I’m a Vatican I Catholic, Dana. Not an idiot.”

Her daughter has the grace to look away. “He wants me to marry him,” she murmurs.

Margaret loves Fox. She loves him the way people love barn cats and funny cock-eared dogs and every pied beauty. But all of a sudden it’s Fox at Thanksgiving, Fox properly at Christmas this time. Uncle Fox, wedding-anniversary Fox, Fox calling her…what? Mom? Surely not Mrs. Scully still.

Margaret knows her children have done the math on her oldest son’s birthday, that he was mighty hefty for a “preemie.” She knows her latest grandchild deserves to be born in wedlock, she knows every Catholic from Father McCue back to Saint Peter would be absolutely appalled with her.

“Be sure of what you want,” she says to the chestnut tree just past the living room window. To Saint Mary Magdalene, to all repentant sinners.

***

William, six. William clever and tall for his age and gingerbread-colored like his father, with his mother’s round lapis eyes. Fiona, four, happily squirting colored water into a large plastic bin of shaving cream. The twins - Silas and Clara- are nearly three and getting bathed in the sink by their father. Dana, a tenured professor, lolling on the couch. Dana pregnant with number five.

Dana yawns like a cat over some tedious medical journal. Dana ever rail-thin since her cancer. Dana still looking depleted of essential nutrients. Phosphorus? Zinc?

But Dana is still a doctor, so Margaret is silent.

“Are you all right?” Margaret asks her irritable daughter. She beams at Clara, absurdly chubby, with her Aunt Melissa’s coppery curls. Clara with her plump hands like little stars. Silas, rosy and dark-haired, howls in general indignation. Silas with his father’s fairy-forest eyes and impossible lashes. Silas who loves to pat his grandmother’s cheeks.

“Mother I’m FINE,” Dana sighs. “Sy, hush. It’s only warm water.”

Margaret watches her son-in-law for a time, watches his long hands and his furrowed brow as the twins laugh and splash and protest in the deep farmhouse sink. Her Bill could never have done what Fox does.

“Loretta Lynn said she stopped having babies when they started coming in pairs,” Fox observes, sluicing water over his anguished twins. Clara laments pitifully. Silas has a broken air about him, weary as his mother.

Dana laughs, sweet as communion wine. “Stop knocking me up, then,” she grins, hand over her enormous belly.

“Not until you marry me,” Fox replies, thumbing Silas’s fat cheek. Kissing his darkly curled head.

Fiona on the carpet, giggling as William makes farting sounds in his armpits. Fiona with the blackest hair and the bluest eyes and the most perfectly sprinkled freckles like her Uncle Charlie.

William like a wood-elf, so tall and bright.

Dana laughs again. “No priest would ever, would they, Mom?”

Margaret, exhausted and happy, sighs at the pair of them.

In the oven, turkey tetrazzini from the Thanksgiving leftovers. Potty-training sticker charts on the fridge. Will’s perfect math homework, Fee’s wobbly I LOV YU!! above a careful crayon drawing of her family.

Margaret could have never predicted this, could never have seen Fox in sweats and baking Texas Sheet Cake for the PTA. Fox staying home and juggling nap schedules so that Dana could tell anecdotes about maggots to her adoring students.

Fox has a blog, which is Quite The Thing nowadays. Fox is a bestselling author. He’s made the talk show circuit and the girls from bunko send her newspaper clippings.

Fox towels off his exhausted babies. He diapers them, dresses them in fleecy pajamas. They look at him with enormous, reproachful eyes. They pout.

Margaret holds her arms out, draws them in when they toddle over.

The babies nestle, nuzzle, make sweet baby sounds as the sink drains away. Their little mouths pop open, lashes curled on their flawless cheeks. She’s never expected Dana, of all of her children, to be living this life. Cold, prickly, distant Dana with her lunatic partner and her brain cancer and her dead little girl.

“There are infinite infinities,” William tells Fiona. “But some infinities are larger than others.”

[traumacatholic]

Statement from Michael P. Warsaw, Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of EWTN Global Catholic Network on the death of His Holiness, Pope Francis:

“The death of Pope Francis is a moment of personal grief for Catholics around the world. Together with our entire EWTN Family, I mourn his passing and join the Church in prayers for the repose of his soul. I was privileged to be able to meet Pope Francis a number of times throughout the years and was always struck by his kindness and good humor in our encounters. As Catholics, we thank God for the life and pontificate of Pope Francis, and in particular for his tireless advocacy for those on the peripheries.

As part of our service to the Church in this moment, EWTN will air programming to honor Pope Francis’s life and legacy as well as coverage of the many devotions and Masses from the Vatican, including the Holy Father’s funeral Mass. We invite our global audience to join us in this period of mourning. May God have mercy on His servant and grant him eternal rest.” [x]

[portraitsofsaints]

Happy Feast Day

Pope St. John XXIII

1881-1963

Feast Day: October 11

Patronage: Papal Delegates, Patriachary of Venice, Second Vatican CouncilCanonized 2014

Pope John XXIII, affectionally called “The Good Pope”, was born to a large poor sharecropping family. He graduated from college with a doctorate in theology and was ordained a priest in 1904. In 1914 he was drafted into the Italian army and served as a chaplain and stretcher-bearer. Throughout his career, he worked in many church programs including the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, saved thousands of Jews during WWII, was named “Righteous Gentile”, nuncio in France, and Apostolic delegate to Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey. In 1958 he was unexpectedly elected Pope and in 1962, he called an ecumenical council (Vatican II). He died of stomach cancer in 1963.

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase. (website)