#would have said negro but negro is affectionate. TO ME. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forkanna · 5 years

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NOTE: Trigger warning for racism. To be historically accurate, I should have used a certain word other than "negro" but I can't bring myself to type it.

This chapter and the ones following were hard enough to write as it was. Apologies to anyone who might feel offended or upset by parts of this chapter, but as I said, I was trying for historical accuracy, and sometimes that means writing awful, difficult, uncomfortable things.

Also, I was listening to American McGee's Alice soundtrack while writing these chapters. Seemed to fit.

They made sure to bring the Magic Picture down and have it hung in Ozma's chambers. That way, it would remain safe in the safest of rooms in the Palace, and be somewhere easy to view at anytime. Nessa had expressed a worry that it wouldn't function if removed, but that turned out to be groundless, for it continued shifting to show prairies and lakes and mountains all the way down the stairs and halls to its new home. A few times, it shifted to show someone they were speaking about during their idle conversations while moving it — including Ozma, and it was a strange sight indeed to see Ozma carrying a painting of herself, carrying a painting of herself, carrying a painting of herself, ad infinitum.

"You'd better come back to me," Glinda told her as they got ready for bed. Her eyes were drawn to the smooth green skin that she so often had to force herself not to caress. She didn't always succeed.

However, Elphaba was so uncomfortable going any further that she refrained. It had begun to worry Glinda. She knew things would function differently between two women, and she was past the point of worrying about it and ready to embrace finding out what those differences might be. But her sweet artichoke was not ready. To snuggle, and kiss, and occasionally caress, yes, but not to explore beyond those activities. She understood, even if it was a bit frustrating.

"I will, you worrywart," Elphaba sighed impatiently, tossing the dress onto the bureau and reaching for the nightgown. But before she could catch hold of it, two arms slid around her stomach. "Ooh… wh-what is it?"

Leaning her cheek against the bare back of the woman who had come to mean everything to her, Glinda urged, "You'd better." Then she kissed her shoulderblade. It only took a moment before Elphaba turned, and she kissed again, from collarbone up to neck. Fingertips were ghosting over her back through her own dress.

"Want some help with this?" Elphaba asked in such a soft tone that it was like a shower of eider down, caressing her cheeks as it fluttered past toward the ground.

"Yes. I do, so much…"

In no time, they had it off and resting next to Elphaba's. Her gaze was fixated on Glinda's as she reached for their nightgowns again, as if knowing she would be stopped. So when she was, it was not nearly as much of a surprise as the first time. Hands touched, eyes met. Stomachs brushed against each other as they began to slowly spin, wrapped up in each other so deeply that all else fell away.

"Elphie… do you ever regret… any of it?"

As was her way, she never spared Glinda's feelings. "Parts of it. But not this."

"You don't wish… Fiyero…?"

Even if it might have been a slight fib, Glinda couldn't pretend she wasn't pleased with Elphaba's response. A green thumb and forefinger pinched her chin, and a soft voice whispered, "Fiyero who?"

The next kiss lasted nearly twenty minutes. And led to many more, and a few other experiments besides. It certainly made her leave-taking that much more memorable.

~ o ~

"Make sure you remember her name is 'Dorothy Gale'," Nessa was fussing the following morning as Elphaba checked and rechecked her pack, making sure she had a few basic essentials. Mostly spare clothing, apples, some bread and cheese. They had found a few drab old dresses in one of the shops in town, which Elphaba was wearing now; they all remembered too well the hideous thing Dorothy had been wearing when she arrived, and the only slightly better one she had changed into for travelling. The Grimmerie most certainly couldn't be taken along, but Elphaba had a fair bit of it memorised already; that was her best line of defense.

"Yes, Mother."

"And that they might not have our level of magical understanding; a lot of really normal magical things seemed to shock her when she was here."

"Yes, Mother."

While Nessa was rolling her eyes and tutting at that, Ozma was sizing her and Glinda up. She had been helping prepare, of course, but was distracted during the work.

"Something's different."

"What's different?" Glinda asked innocently.

"You two. It's like you have this kind of… extra energy."

"Oh, don't be silly, Little Ozzie! We're just nervous about sending Elphie into another country, that's all."

"No… no, I don't think that's it." But she couldn't seem to quite place her finger on the real cause of the healthy glow in their skin. Glinda decided that the sooner they got Elphaba sent off through space and time, the less likely the virgin girl would be to catch on. All in all, she had to thank her lucky stars that their queen was so very young, and Nessa so very inexperienced despite her age.

"All set?" she asked Elphaba, as they exchanged a bemused glance when the others couldn't see.

"I am, Sugarsnap. Ready as I'll ever be."

Ozma rounded Glinda and embraced the taller witch, head falling to her shoulder. "Oh… I feel like such a bad ruler, letting you run off! Doesn't it make more sense to send a guard? N-not that their lives are worth less, but you just… these past months, I've really…"

Glinda had to giggle at how affectionate she was being. Once they had gently wafted away that brusque bravado Tippetarius had blown into the Emerald City with, there was such a sweet, caring, earnest girl underneath. If she and Elphaba ever had children, she wished for a dozen or more, and for them all to be exactly like Ozma.

"I'll be fine," Elphaba reassured her, pushing her back gently to arm's length. Nessa put a hand on her shoulder to help reassure. "It's no use sending a soldier to do a friend's job, and a friend's job is to look after other friends. Even ones who tried to kill her once bef-"

"Oh, enough, Fabala!" Nessa grumped. "Learn to let it go, or we'll all spend the rest of our lives sighing when you bring it up!"

The use of her childhood nickname was what silenced Elphaba, and it was a dirty tactic… that tended to work when coming from Nessarose. Glinda only got smacked for it, so she had ceased to try.

"Alright, Ozma," Glinda said in a voice of forced cheeriness. "Do the belt-thing! The sooner Elphie takes care of business, the sooner we can put all this behind us."

"Now, you remember the signs," Nessa said firmly. "If we look in on you this time tomorrow and see you holding up a hand, palm-out, we'll know you want us to wait. Otherwise, when the hour comes…"

Elphaba nodded. "Yes. You'll wish me back, I know. Alright… whenever you're ready."

As Ozma wrapped her fingers around the magic belt, Nessarose stepped to the Magic Picture and said, "Show me Dorothy."

This scene was no better than the one before. She wasn't reading, but curled up on the bed, no blanket to cover her. There was some small comfort in seeing her pink feet twitching against each other, for it meant she had found a way to prise loose the golden shoes, but that was more or less the only heartening aspect of the scene. The creature in the bed was forlorn and wasted, her gown a little grimy from not having been washed recently enough. Glinda could bear to look at it no longer, but she forced herself to do just that; this was their friend, the one who had helped defeat Morrible and oust Elphaba's father. And this was what had become of her. It was unjust and offensive to her Gillikin sensibilities.

"Alright," Ozma said, widening her stance. "Just now… I think you will see something interesting."

And they did. For this time, Ozma only screwed up her lovely emerald eyes and glared at the painting, as if it had made a jest about her weight. And with no more than that, no uttered word, Elphaba vanished from the real world, and appeared in the one comprised of tinted oils.

~ o ~

The first thought that came to Elphaba was that something felt wrong. If asked to explain what, she would have been unable to come up with it off the top of her head at that moment. However, if asked later, she would know she felt constricted somehow. Heavier, as if her bones were comprised of lead weights. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but somehow, even though she didn't know why, she knew it was because of Kansas, not something within herself.

After a moment to try getting used to that sensation, she noticed Dorothy had not even stirred. It took a few seconds, during which she had begun to hesitantly walk toward her bed, before Dorothy even blinked. Another few steps, and her eyes found the visitor.

"Nnnn?"

"Hello," Elphaba whispered. Not that she fully understood why she was whispering; just an innate feeling that she should be that tingled up the base of her spine. "Dorothy… do you remember me?"

Her eyes drooped a little more. "Nnn… don't remember… any negro woman…"

Those words made no sense to Elphaba, but she had other matters that were of pressing importance. By now, she was standing by Dorothy's bedside, hitching a pained smile into place. Her roommate was always better at that sort of thing. "Glinda and Nessa and I, well, we've all been very worried about you."

"Glinda? Nessa?" Her eyes focused a little more, and she rolled her head so that she could look up at her. The sunken eyes and standing-out cheekbones were a lot easier to see from this angle. "Oh… is that you, Miss… Elphaba? Only you don't seem… the same… what are you doing here?"

"Trying to talk to my old friend, if you can believe that. Not that you're much for conversation. What in Oz is the matter with you?"

"Oh… that's the… medicine…" Her eyes flicked to a small metal cup on the floor near the bed; it reminded Elphaba of an overlarge thimble. "It makes me… tired, and not feel like… doing anything…"

The word 'medicine' certainly sharpened her focus. "Are you ill? Come now, what's happened to you since you got whisked back here?"

Her sunken eyes filled with sorrow, making her appear haunted. Perhaps she was. "It's… dreadful… but I don't… they've just given me another…" This time, she couldn't seem to get the word out because it was quite simply too difficult for her to voice. "Ooh…"

"That's alright," she hurried to reassure her, petting up and down her side through the dingy gown. "You don't have to come up with all the gory details. Just answer me this: are you happier here? Did you find what you wanted to find in Kansas?"

That only seemed to make matters worse. Tears swam in Dorothy's eyes, even if she couldn't quite articulate why. However, before Dorothy could find her voice again, the door to the room creaked open noisily, filling the air with the sounds of metal scraping.

"What are you doin' in here, girl?!"

Elphaba looked up at her, stomach tightening. It was a woman about twenty or more years her senior, if the wrinkles and bags under her eyes were any indicator. She knew she couldn't trust that people of Kansas aged quite the same as people of Oz. She was somewhat plump, and her messy brown hair was pulled into a taut bun at the base of her skull. Over her plain, pale blue dress was an apron, and in said apron's pocket bulged several small articles.

"Begging your pardon," Elphaba began hesitantly. This was a difficult situation; she didn't want to alarm the woman. "This girl seemed very upset, and I wanted-"

"Ain't your job to look to the patients' health, girl! That's for the doctors! You're only here to tidy! Now go on — git!" She shooed her hand toward the door, stepping to one side. Elphaba didn't much care for being spoken to as if she were no more than a pet, so she bristled as she stood.

"I haven't any right to ask how she's feeling?"

"You mind your place! Y'know, I told 'em — I told 'em we can't emancipate the coloureds and give 'em jobs, they just ain't trained for any such thing, and here I's right. Can't even think to mind y' own business. I'll have you out on your ear if I catch ya sittin' on a patient's bed again, y'hear? Now the sheets'll hafta be bleached!"

Now, she was far more incensed than she had been before. How dare this woman who spoke so bizarrely treat her, a complete stranger, as if she were some sort of unclean animal? But she didn't have much choice but to take it; if she riled up the locals too much, she wouldn't have a chance to ask Dorothy the question again and try to catch hold of an answer.

But there was something else she could do. Raising one hand, she chanted under her breath a little sleeping spell she knew; it was as likely to simply make the other woman yawn as to drop her to the floor, but it bore testing out.

Nothing happened.

"Whatta you mutterin' there?" Then the woman began to look vaguely panicked, swallowing hard, her double-chin bobbing up and down. "Don't you try that- that voodoo on me! Unchristian nonsense! Get on outta here, girl, g'wan!" She snapped her fingers and gestured swiftly at the door.

So Elphaba had no choice. It was either capitulate, or find herself in the kind of serious trouble that might have consequences for one or both of them. She muttered, "Yes, ma'am" and took her pack, heading for the door. The woman definitely eyed the pack with some suspicion, but didn't stop her; now she was too focused on Dorothy, on getting the unwilling girl to stand so she could strip the bedclothes off to be laundered.

What on Oz had she landed herself in?

Once out in the hall, she saw another woman with dark, smooth skin like that of some of the Vinkan regions, scrubbing the floor with a mop. She only hesitated a moment; it was much too important that she have answers than to worry about upsetting another local. Besides, now she might have a bit more success because she was more mentally prepared to meet one than before. She walked up to her and kept her voice low, for fear of incurring the plump matron's wrath.

"Excuse me, I'm afraid I'm a little lost," she whispered. "I thought this was…" What excuse could she make? "I thought this was the apothecary."

"Apothewhaaa?" the woman asked back, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up. "Lord, I ain't never heard o' nothin' like that, miss!"

"My mistake. Then… where might I be now? If not there."

The woman stood back and whistled low. "You talk mighty fine. One o' them educated coloureds what the Union likes to brag about. Ain't expected of us, don't have to put on airs 'round me none."

The way this woman spoke confused Elphaba as much as the other woman. Did everyone from Kansas jumble up their words in such a strange fashion? Dorothy had as well, to a lesser degree, but the longer she had spent with Glinda and Elphaba, she had seemed to lose that strange tendency to let her tongue wander. Shaking the thoughts free of her mind, she put her pack down and sighed.

"Nevermind my diction, friend. What's your name?"

"Angeline, miss. An' yours?"

"Elphaba." Another whistle, and a slight chuckle. "Something funny about that?"

"We ain't supposed to carry on with those old names! Not that I heard that one before. Y' mama musta been stubborn, or proud on account of bein' a free negro. But fine, fine, I like the sound of it. 'Elphaba'... mmm-mm. Like a cousin o' mine, named Phoebe."

Feeling distinctly confused by whole concepts within that response, she then repeated, "Where am I, Angeline? I wouldn't wish to upset anyone if I'm in the wrong place."

"Why, Topeka Insane Asylum, Miss Elphaba. Ain't you seen the sign above the door when you came in?" Then she looked a little suspicions, shrewdly squinting at her. "Y' did come in the front door… right?"

"I didn't notice any sign," she said truthfully. Simply leaving out the part that she hadn't used any door, either. "My apologies. Did you say… an asylum for the insane?"

"Yes'm. All kind that ain't right in the head here. Some worse than others."

"What about that girl whose room I came from just now? She seemed… tired more than anything."

Her eyes lowered to her mop handle in regret. The kind of vague regret a person holds for a total stranger in a dire situation, but whose life doesn't affect their own. "Shame, that girl… runnin' her mouth all the time about flyin' brooms an' houses, talkin' lions, an' I don't know what else. Been through the talkin' cure, and put her on medicine to keep her all calm-like. An'..."

The specific way Angeline went quiet told Elphaba something worse had happened. It was obvious as anything could be, but she was trying to do a good job of pretending it didn't affect her. She suspected the woman spent a lot of effort pretending the goings on within the asylum were not, in fact, going on.

"Angeline…" Maybe she shouldn't, but she reached out and laid a hand on the woman's shoulder. "I can't stand idly by while an innocent girl is hurt."

"What's it matter t' us? Some white girl sees crazy things. Maybe… maybe it really will help her…" Those words, she definitely didn't believe, even as they were coming out of her own mouth.

"What will?"

"The shocks." She swallowed hard, her multiple braids bouncing as her head swung back toward the door, then she leaned in to whisper to Elphaba, "Y'ain't heard none o' this from me. But they beat her, miss. Not too bad, not like a man come home from a bash, but I seen the bruises. Talkin' doctor couldn't make her see sense on his own, an' musta tried to beat the crazy outta her. Slapped her once or twice, I reckon. Blacked her eye. Then… they went on with 'lectricity. Been tryin' to use that over in Europe, I hear tell, and this fancy talkin'-doctor said to try it on li'l Miss Dorothy. Ain't right, I think, but… I ain't get paid to speak my mind. Lucky to have work with pay, now, ain't I?"

A long moment of pure horror kept Elphaba from answering. An insane asylum. They didn't have such things in Oz, but they did have the occasional person who was too mentally unstable to be allowed to live amongst the other citizens. Their usual method of treatment was isolation, and to have a doctor check in on them and speak with them at length. Hopefully untangle the knots within their mind. It sounded like they had tried that with Dorothy, as well, and had not been satisfied with the results. The beating was horrendous enough; she wasn't sure she wanted to know what 'shocks' meant precisely. The worst part was…

It was all their fault. If Angeline was right in her assessment, or in what she had overheard at any rate, the reason they locked Dorothy up and tried to "treat" her was because she had mentioned the many things she saw in Oz. Though she had often remarked that they didn't have talking lions, or a good portion of other wonders she marvelled at that Elphaba thought mundane, she'd never given any thought to what the reverse meant. That Kansas was a place without such wonders, and speaking about them would be perceived as madness.

"How… how many times?" she croaked.

"Only once, so far. Ain't heard if they plan for more; she still a little shook up from the first time. Poor girl."

"Listen," she went on in a whisper, eyes pleading. "I've got to have time to speak with Dorothy. At least a few minutes. Is there any way you could help me arrange that?"

The woman's eyes squinted again. "You some reporter? I ain't never seen one of us workin' for the papers. Then again, you pretty light-skinned; some kinda poster child for education." Still, she let that line of questioning go easily enough, gaze sweeping the corridor. "Come back at nine, miss. They ain't check the patients again 'til come up on ten. An hour enough?"

"Bless you," she whispered urgently, squeezing her shoulders and making the woman laugh at her again.

"You're the craziest one here, I reckon. Stickin' a negro nose in where it don't belong. But…" Her eyes softened slightly. "I also reckon you the only one who might care what happens to that poor girl. Lord wouldn't have me ignorin' that, would He?"

"Daresay he wouldn't," she agreed, even though she wasn't sure what Angeline meant. But she'd often heard Dorothy mention "the Lord", so she supposed he must be in some position similar to that of Wizard or King. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me for nothin'. 'Cause I ain't told you nothin'… remember?" She tapped the side of her nose before going back to mopping. Elphaba wasn't sure what the gesture was supposed to mean, but regardless had figured out that the entire discussion, officially, never took place.

Not knowing what else to do with herself until she could speak with Dorothy again, Elphaba found the nearest washrooms and went inside, staring at her face for a few seconds. It took that long for the reality of the situation to fully register.

Her skin wasn't green.

A few of the comments Angeline had issued made more sense now; her skin was a brownish tint, though not so deep as her new acquaintance's. It took her fully five minutes to remember why she was there and what she was doing, so distracted was she by the sight. Oh, how many times she had wished her green away! It was a dream come true!

"I'm beautiful," she breathed as she gazed into the mirror at the chestnut skin, fingers probing her cheek gently, watching the skin dimple and flex. Proving to herself that this was real. Of course, there were still a dozen minor things about her face and her body that she would change if given the chance, and she was vaguely worried about how she had lost her verdant hue… but in that moment, none of those mattered. She was finally degreenified. Free!

Then she shook herself from this vain lapse in judgment to refocus on the task at hand. There would be plenty of time to indulge in that later. She glanced into her pack as she thought furiously about what her next move would be. It occurred to her at some point that she had no idea what time it was, so she couldn't exactly know when nine should strike… so she had to venture out into the hallways prematurely.

Except the moment she did, she had another grand surprise awaiting her. In light of that, she was starting to think she may have had her fill of surprises for a good while.

"Oh my- HELP!" screamed some young woman in a white outfit, wearing what Elphaba could only think of as an entirely stupid hat that served no aesthetic or functional purpose. "Th' toilets… a coloured girl-!"

After a second or two, she noticed more murmuring around her. This wasn't going well. Even though she couldn't understand what had happened, or why some of the gathering staff and patients looked highly affronted, she flashed them a pained, embarrassed smile and pushed through the crowd. Belatedly, she heard a few men shouting the words 'whites only', and that they should follow her-

But she had already taken up refuge in a closet. Elphaba had seen plenty of unruly mobs before, due to her two-year stint as Wicked Witch of the West; she knew what the forming of one was like, the shape it took before evolving to a higher form of ugliness. Much better to spend an uncomfortable stretch of time sitting on a stack of dirty old rags than to have to run for that entire time, instead. Footsteps sped past, but none of them ever so much as hesitated in front of the closet door.

"What in Oz was that supposed to mean?" she muttered to herself once the commotion had died down. "What are 'whites only'? Was that a laundry room? Imagine, having a laundry room for each different colour of clothing. How pointless! People in Kansas know how to squander their resources."

As she gazed down at her blue dress — apparently the 'wrong' dress — she tried to recall if she had seen what time it was. She hadn't. Then she remembered something else that had been bothering her.

She had no magic. Of course, now she knew what the strange sensation she had been feeling when she first entered the world of Kansas was: her power leaving her. Or perhaps it was being suppressed? Either way, there was something about this country that separated her from the magic that she had so long enjoyed. Even before enjoying it, she had thought it a burden, but it had been a part of her. For the first time in her life, it was a part cut off entirely. Permanently, or temporarily? That terrified her even more.

But either way, she had a job to do or she'd never get out of Kansas. When all was quiet, she slipped back out into the hallway and took a few steps; there was no sign of the mob. A little further along, she spotted another such room that said "COLOREDS", so she nipped into there.

The difference was striking. It was an indoor toilet, as she had thought the first was until all the laundry talk took place. But this one was more rudimentary. A lot of the surfaces were made of old wood, and the floors were dingy and unpolished. And the commodes themselves looked distinctly less comfortable.

"Now I'm glad I don't have to go," she muttered to herself.

"OH!" gasped another woman as she entered, clutching at her heart. "My goodness, you- why…" Then she squinted. "You new here? Ain't seen you around before."

"Elphaba," she said shortly. "Do you have the time?"

"Time for what? Oh-" She smiled when she caught the meaning before needing Elphaba to explain. "Yes'm, it's… well, it'll be half past eight now."

"Thank you," she sighed, turning to enter one of the toilets. She didn't have to use it, but figured it was easier than engaging in a full conversation with a total stranger. Those had varying levels of success thus far.

As she listened to the other woman washing her hands, perched on the closed lid of the commode with her elbows resting on her knees and chin resting on her clasped fists, she tried to make sense of what she had been seeing. People being angry about laundry, which was done in toilets. Lack of magic. An entire building purely for those who were mentally infirm, and one that seemed to believe they were fragile as glass if the padding on the walls and ceiling were any indication. And for some reason, she had this sense that she wasn't welcome by some people. Whatever the division was, maybe it had something to do with her clothing.

Some time later, she heard another person enter the washroom. It had been roughly the right amount of waiting around. Stepping free, she again asked for the time, and found it to be just a few minutes after nine, so she nodded to herself, took up her pack, stopped to briefly drink from a water fountain, and again forged her way down the darkened halls to Dorothy's room.

It was locked.

"Curse this infernal place," she muttered, jiggling the handle. The door was reinforced with metal of some kind, so she knew she wouldn't be able to break it down. This was going to put a serious crimp in her plans!

Then she heard a tinkling on the floor next to her. A key. Big, ugly, and rusted, but it looked like it might fit the lock. By the time she looked over, Angeline was already pushing her mop further down the hallway, barely even glancing over her shoulder to make sure Elphaba had noticed. And that was all. She had to wonder just how connected this member of janitorial staff really was if she had such an easy time coming up with keys to locked doors… but now was not the time.

Once the key was in the lock, it rasped loudly as it turned, and Elphaba cringed. But at that moment, Angeline was the only one in the hall, so she quickly slipped inside and shut it behind herself. All she could hope was that no one came to investigate.

Dorothy was basically exactly as she had left her, except facing the other way. Even having their attention forcibly drawn to her, the so-called caretakers hadn't thought to change her gown yet. Didn't they bathe the patients? Didn't they care about them at all? This time, Elphaba crossed the room and crouched on the other side so that she could look into her face — and perhaps duck out of sight if anyone came to check on her. It was a vain hope, given that there was practically nothing to hide behind, but if someone were rather careless, they might miss the second person in the room.

"Dorothy."

It only took a moment for her unfocused eyes to flutter open. Then she smiled. "Miss Elphaba. It was you… I didn't dream… the whole thing."

"Can you speak to me?"

"A little better today, I reckon. On account of…" Her hand opened, showing that there was a large white oval in her palm. It looked as if it had been partially dissolved. "Spat it out when the… old hag left… more ornery than a goat."

"You haven't taken your medicine? Won't you get worse if you don't take it?"

Dorothy frowned across at her, swallowing thickly. Her breaths were slow and laboured. "Nothin'... wrong with me, Elphaba. They think… 'cause I wasn't very bright and told them all about Oz… that I'm… that I lost my marbles. Don't know why I… wasn't very bright… almost believed 'em, that I was crazy, but… I know you was no hallucination, or whatever they… say you were."

It was clear to her now that she had been right about the reasoning behind Dorothy's incarceration in this institute of insanity. She only hoped Angeline had been wrong about her treatments. A vain hope, perhaps, but she didn't want to think about something so ghastly befalling her young friend.

"Are you happy here?" she asked bluntly as she took what was left of the pill and stuck it in her bodice to hide the evidence. It was best to ask the question immediately.

"Am I…?" Her face screwed up as if she might cry, though she was too weary to manage the feat. "Oh… I don't believe I am… m-my Aunt and Uncle, they came and got me… once they heard tell I turned up again. Only they didn't think I was in my right mind, they… looked at me like… I wasn't kin to them anymore, sent me away… and nobody here'll believe me, Elphaba…"

"I believe you," she told her earnestly, without any hesitation. Not since she heard of the plight of the Animals had she felt so strongly about something. "I have an important question for you, Dorothy. Please try to focus. I know, after what they did to you…"

She couldn't finish, but Dorothy didn't need her to. "Go on, ask me."

"Do you want to come back to Oz?"

Her eyes leaking, she whispered, "I would. Ain't any point in staying here anymore, is there?"

Elphaba caressed over her hair. It was matted and dirty, and not braided as Dorothy would usually have it fashioned. More than ever, she felt protective of the child in a way she never thought possible after the way they had met.

"Then that's where we'll go." Glancing at the door again, she leaned in to kiss Dorothy's forehead, and she heard the girl sigh, saw her smiling weakly when she sat back. "It won't be until tomorrow. For now, just… keep quiet, remain here and try not to worry so m-"

The door burst open. There was the annoying matron again, looking flustered and carrying a dressing gown. Elphaba did duck down, and at first it seemed to work.

"Dorothy, turn around. I plum forgot 'bout your dress. Change out of that for me an' y'can have a clean one. Hurry up, now."

"Nnnhhh," Dorothy feigned. It was a pretty good feigned groan for a novice actor.

"Nuh-uh, none o' your sass, now. Up we get, li'l missy."

Hiding beneath the bed, but not directly beneath it so that the matron wouldn't catch sight of her underneath, Elphaba watched as her feet swung off the bed and sank into the padded flooring. There was shifting of cloth, and the view of her legs was partly obscured by the dirty gown being draped over the bed. Dorothy made a ghastly noise a second later.

"Ohhh, look at that there. Have ta change your bloomers, too. Bad little mutt."

"I… didn't… can't stop that from happening… the m… medicine…" She feigned her own droning way of speaking when medicated quite well, also.

"Sit, girl. Be right back, doncha put on that gown yet!" Sighing as if put upon, the woman spun and headed straight for the door, slipping out and into the corridor.

"Elphaba!" Dorothy hissed a moment later. When she poked her head up and over the bed, she saw Dorothy's soft back dotted with a few freckles and moles, the hair falling around her shoulders, but she wasn't moving.

"Should I make good my retreat?"

"Surely would be smart," she went on softly. " I… w-well, I bought you some time to get out. She'll be mad as hops if you're still here when she gets back! S-so go now. I'll see you soon?"

Elphaba curled her lip. She hated to think of Dorothy having to do something so repugnant as dirtying her undergarment on purpose to help her flee, but she knew if she was caught, they might attack — and though she was rather strong, she had no spells to ensure her survival. So only stopping to kiss the top of the girl's head, she sprinted for the door.

And bowled over the matron. It seemed she had been quicker about retrieving a clean pair of bloomers for Dorothy than either of them had hoped she would be. The only good thing was that she really did knock her all the way to the ground, so she could rush off in another direction.

"STOP HER!" the woman was screaming behind her as she tried to find an exit. She first spotted the toilets she hadn't been allowed in before, and tossed the key in through there so it wouldn't be missed. Then she pelted around in the direction she hoped would lead to the entrance-

And into the waiting arms of two large men who were only too ready to capture the offender. Of course, running hadn't helped her case any.

"Let me go!" she snapped at them. And they laughed. They laughed as she struggled, and as they hauled her into a room. She clawed and bit, but they were a little too familiar with the procedures for holding down patients to fall for any of that.

And then she felt a cloth being pressed into her mouth. Before she could demand to know why, she was already losing consciousness.

To Be Continued…

#The Coven of Oz #forkanna writes #wicked fanfiction #wizard of oz fanfiction #forkanna the writer

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thekrazykeke · 6 years

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This is so much fun, I swear before Jesus! As a big family person myself, writing about the reader’s family is cathartic. Mainly because families spill the tea in my stories more than the main character ever will 😙🤣

Boop.

It’s easy to get caught up with Erik, to be swept up in his energy. Although you’d tried to maintain a ‘slow and steady wins the race’ mentality when you’d agreed to be his girl, somehow, someway, the two of y’all just dived headfirst into a relationship.

More often than not, you ended up staying the night over at his crib and you didn’t always use the excuse of wanting to play video games to go see him. He surprised you by how affectionate and touchy-feely he is, though you tried to get used to it and reciprocate in kind, you had been on your own for a good stretch and some habits are hard to break. It didn’t irritate him (so much) anymore and he even took it with good grace, seeming to make it his mission to wrap an arm around your waist that more often, kiss the back of your neck, or pull you into his lap, etc.

Nadia noticed the change in y’all dynamic and while she said that she approved, there was the feeling that she was distancing herself from you, which hurt, if you were being honest, since the two of y’all had hit it off instantly and been flatmates for over two years.

However, you weren’t the type to beg anyone to be friends with you if they didn’t want to.

The independent streak that your mother had nurtured in you your whole life wasn’t disappearing anytime soon, if at all, and occasionally, it clashed with Erik’s habit of spoiling you with too much of, well, just about everything: clothes, shoes, hair, nails, etc. Hell, he had paid off your portion of the rent for six months (you’d managed to talk him out of paying off the entire year just barely). While you would like to say that you were happy, and most of the time you truly are, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Girl, you stupid.” Breanna, your older cousin, stated bluntly. “This nigga is payin’ bills, showering you with gifts, and, wait, is the dick good?”

You swirled the spoon in the bowl of ice cream, unable to meet her eyes. “So good.”

“Did you hit ya head or somethin’? I should walk out of this cafe right now. You called me alllllll the way out here with a SOS text message and I’m thinkin’ it’s a serious situation.” Giving you the stink eye, she stabbed her slice of pie viciously. “Bitch, you is living the dream.”

“It is a serious situation.” Ignoring her ‘girl, stop it!’ look, you purse your lips, “Like, I don’t know where he works, what he does for a living. He told me a little bit about his childhood, but...”

“Y/N, baby cousin, I love you like a sister, and because I care about you so much, I’m going to say something that might hurt your feelings.” Breanna comments, putting down her fork.

“Oh, damn. Lay it on me then, cuz.”

“Your current boo is not your stank ass ex, Mitchell. Girl, you need to celebrate, apparently yo pussy so good, you got a hotep willing to be a househusband. I mean, damn. Give me lessons!” Expressively, she gesticulated as her voice gained an octave. Customers glanced in y’all direction and you laughed nervously before glaring at her. “Sorry, sorry.” Breanna apologized, tone lowering again. “Does he know about Mitchell?”

“Can we change the subject from that whack ass nigga?” You complain.

Mitchell Sanders had been your high school sweetheart and the two of y’all had dated a year and a half through college. During the final year of your relationship, he had been increasingly short tempered and critical of everything about you. While you were young, dumb and in love, you weren’t too sprung that you didn’t love your melanin skin and his passive-aggressive, caustic comments about ‘if you were a little lighter...’ only frustrated and depressed you enough to eventually dump his ass. Not even two months later, he started dating Cassandra Wynters, a preppy white soccer player. Last you’d heard about the happy couple, they’d been racing for the nearest courthouse as she was pregnant.

“No, because that nigga got yo silly-dilly ass thinkin’ that yo future baby daddy is a no good asshole wit a white girlfriend on the side.”

“Oh God. You know what? I’ma head on out of here.” You try to flag down the waiter, only Breanna kicks you in the shin. “Ow, bitch! Mercy!” You hiss through your teeth. “The hell?”

"You such a baby.” She rolled her eyes. “Sit wit me for a few extra minutes before I gotta go back home.” Breanna instructed sternly, in the way that only family members really could command somebody to do anything. “This the only time I get some personal time away from Miguel and Tiana.”

“Oooh, how are your kids?” You pick up your spoon, the melted sweet dripping off the end and back into the bowl.

Snorting, her tone is fond as she says, “Bad as hell as usual. Dre’s watching them right now so it’s all good. They always behave for they daddy.” Mushy expression changing quickly, she pointed a finger at you accusingly, “Girl, don’t even try and change the subject, though! You need to communicate with ya man so that he can address these issues early in the relationship. I will not stand by and let you sabotage yourself because you scared that you feelin’ this dude a little too much.”

“Whatever, Bre. I’m done talkin’ about this for today.”

Even though you said that, it lingered at the back of your mind the rest of the day. Work was routine so you didn’t mess up due to inattentiveness, thank goodness, and you couldn’t talk to Nadia since right now the two of y’all were in some strange type of friendship/flatmate limbo.

"Wassup?” That’s the greeting Erik gave you before giving you a peck on the lips. “...Ay, you good?” He asked, pulling back a little to scrutinize you carefully.

‘Fuck, he’s figured it out!’ Reaching a hand up, you place it against the nape of his neck, leaning in for another quick kiss. “Mm, better now. I mean, heh, why wouldn’t I be?”

Score one for being overcompensating.

Eyebrows raising, for a heart stopping moment you thought he’d call you out on your bullshit, but Erik just shook his head. “...Okay. Good day at work then. I can work wit that. I’m sayin’ though, you wanted to check out that restaurant on McMillan and 4th West Ave? I made a reservation if you still wanna go...?”

“The restaurant with the skyline view of the city and that famous seafood chef that cooks his food fresh every day?” Eyes lighting up, you launch yourself into his arms and he gripped the back of your thighs, lifting you. “Yes, yes, yes! Please!” Hands framing his face, you kissed him again, this time more intently, feeling his fingers squeezing your thighs. “And afterwards we can come back here. You let me say thank you again, properly?I might even get on my knees.”

Erik set you down on your feet. Bodies brushing up against each other, there’s no mistaking the feeling of him being half hard. “Don’t start that shit. Teasing a nigga before we go out in public.” Popping you on the ass, he snorted at the squeal you let out. “Hurry up. That reservation at seven thirty.”

You gaped at him momentarily, turning to leave, “Why didn’t you say that at first?!”

“I’m tellin’ you now!”

Last minute as it was, the two of y’all showed up literally dressed to slay. All eyes were on the both of you. The question in all of those pale faces were ‘How can these negroes afford to eat here?’, if not phrased exactly like that, the point still stood.

Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care for once.

It didn’t matter how Erik knew the chef personally and that they shook hands as if old friends, or how the table he’d booked was strategically placed right near the area where the chef worked and you wouldn’t miss a thing while he cooked.

For tonight, you had decided to let those fears and anxieties go. To enjoy this date with ya man.

Then the weirdest thing happened.

“Y/N?” A nasally, high pitched voice called. "Oh my God, Y/N! Hey, hi!” Waving excitedly is a slightly plump, but cute waitress. Handing off a tray of drinks to another waiter, she hurried over to the table. “It’s been so long.”

“Uhh, baby?” Erik is understandably confused and so are you.

“I’m sorry. Do I...know you?”

“Oh! Oh, duh!” Slapping her forehead, she went through a quick demonstration of your alma mater’s hand sign. “It’s me! Cassandra!” She added, when it became clear that you were still drawing a blank.

“O-Ooooh, Cas. Wooooow, girl. Hey.” Your greeting lacked enthusiasm and Erik raised an eyebrow at you. You valiantly ignored this as you grasped for something nice to say. “Lookin’ good, girl. Shoot, I ain’t even recognize you.”

“It’s okay.” Heavily, she dropped into a seat next to Erik and yourself after grabbing a chair from another table. “I know I put on a few pounds since college and I cut my hair.”

“Nooo!” Waving your hands frantically, you shake your head, “It’s not that. It’s just...I thought you’d be on TV, living your dream as a soccer player and everything.” Erik ‘coughed’ into his fist. “Sorry! Cassandra, this is my man, Erik. Baby, this is Cassandra Wynters.”

He ignored her outstretched hand. “And we on a date. So...maybe get back to your job?”

As if you’d only just recognized her uniform, you gasped, hoping it’s believable. “Oh damn! I didn’t mean to take up all your time with my chit-chatting. I don’t want you to get in trouble, and we are on a date, so... Rain check. I’ll have the, um, maitre d’ give you my contact info.”

Cheeks flushed, she raised slowly from her position, “Right. So sorry, that was rude and inappropriate, my just running over here.” Laughing awkwardly, a little piggish snort escaped and you sipped at your drink to avoid laughing in her face. “I’ll catch you later then.”

“Yep. Ta-ta!” Dismissing her, you turn your full attention onto Erik once again, relaxing only when she walked away.

“That musta felt good, huh?” Erik is excellent at reading your body language and cues. You grin evilly and he snorted. “I can’t believe she just ran her ass over here like y’all was in a crowded subway station or something.”

Your shake your head and thank the waiter who refills the glasses while another takes the extra chair away again. “Some people have no home training!” You state in your best posh voice.

Placing a hand over his chest, he played along, effecting a ‘shocked’ tone, “Why would you say something so controversial yet so brave?”

It was very likely that y’all made all those white folks big mad with how y’all were laughing and carrying on. Enjoying the food and each other’s company. And when it came time to leave, Erik’s hand on your waist is a warm comfort as you catch sight of Cassandra being scolded by the maitre d’, or her boss, or whoever, at the corner of your eye. For a brief moment, the two of you stare at each other and you’re the first to look away, tilting your head up to kiss at Erik’s jaw, an action that caused him to startle briefly before he captured your lips in a kiss that toed the line between being indecent and sweet.

Maybe its God, or karma, or something else telling you to stop questioning every single thing about the mystery surrounding this man, that when it was time to know, he would tell you. To enjoy being the central focus of someone’s attention and who actually, truly, wants to be with you and only you. That everything would work out. Whatever the lesson to be learned here, the thought, ‘I am so blessed.’ Kept reverberating through your brain on a loop. And yeah, you gave that dimple cheeked fool some road head while on the way back to his crib.

Can you really be blamed?

#mcu #erik killmonger #mcu imagine #erik killmonger imagine #marvel #black reader #marvel imagine #black panther #erik killmonger x reader #black panther imagine #thekrazykeke

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natwolf · 3 years

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But the lawyer says he didn't set out to write a defense of the Warren Commission.

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martinaiii156 · 3 years

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wallpaperpainter · 4 years

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Ten Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Go To Motorcycle Boots Men On Your Own | Motorcycle Boots Men

For about two years I catholic about the apple and wrote about the subcultures of blockchain – from Bali to Budapest, from Serbia to Switzerland. I planned to abide the journey. I absurd I’d be traveling to extensive places this summer, advertisement on all-around blockchain projects for CoinDesk.

Then came COVID-19. Aback the chat “travel” is now a dejected anachronism – maybe our grandkids will be able to acquaintance this affair they alarm “travel” – like anybody abroad I’m holed up in an apartment, staring at screens. But I was curious. How is the all-around crypto community, or at atomic the association that I know, administration the pandemic? How has the coronavirus impacted their circadian lives, their projects, their bend on blockchain? So I arrested in with a few of my old crypto accompany to get a bit of a pulse.

Of course, this is not meant to be an exhaustive, accurate analysis of all-around capacity – (good luck with that) – but it does accord a window into some choir that are rarely heard, and a glimpse of accustomed activity from the added blockchain world. A few capacity emerge. The biggest: In abounding agency blockchain projects are faring bigger during CV19, and are added optimistic, than the non-blockchain world. Abounding bodies in the amplitude are artlessly alive for this affectionate of thing. “Crypto has a agglomeration of semi-Asperger-ey people,” said one blockchain entrepreneur. “They’re admiring this. They’re admiring the alibi to not leave the house.”

Or to be added charitable, the blockchain amplitude is a mix of idealists, dreamers, builders, accident takers and abounding who were already assured the collapse of civilization. Blockchain has already survived alarm afterwards scare, blast afterwards crash. So who’s abashed of a all-around pandemic?

Budapest, Hungary

When I aboriginal met Barnabás Debreczeni at a Hungarian blockchain appointment in the summer of 2018, he told me that his adventure to crypto began with zombies. Aback he and his buddies able for a “zombie invasion” – he uses the chat zombie, jokingly, as autograph for any affectionate of apocalyptic accident – they accomplished that if acculturation bankrupt down, they would charge some affectionate of peer-to-peer anatomy of currency, and that led them to bitcoin.

Now, Debreczeni seems prophetic: The zombies accept accustomed in the anatomy of COVID-19. Debreczeni is tall, trim, wears continued bristles in a ponytail, and runs a Bitcoin barter and ATM aggregation alleged Mr. Coin. In our Zoom call, he tells me he carefully followed the virus as aboriginal as January, and in February he stockpiled food, sanitizer, gas and a generator. “I got myself a katana,” he says with a smile, “So I can activity axial the building.” In February, bodies said he was crazy. In March, they begged him for amoroso and flour.

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pewdipliersepticpie · 7 years

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Part 4: The word around the world

I got a lot of people adding to the convo with how they refer to black people in their culture and how the n word is perceived where they live so this is about that.

Secondly: The rest of the world

The bad, the nope, and the yikes

@thehylianpotmurderer

yikes??? It's absolutely not totally fine in the netherlands to say the dutch equivalent to the n word. It's frowned upon here what the hell?

@majin-bb

HAHAHAHA WOW TATTA'S MAN. nee dat woord in het nederlands is ook niet oke. wat je "vriendjes" ook zeggen van je. het is niet oke. “WE DONT HAVE ANOTHER WORD FOR POC" je bent nog dommer dan het achtereinde van een varken 😂

translation

No, that word in Dutch is also not okay, whatever your friends say, it’s not okay. You’re dumber than the ass of a pig.

(aangezien ge “dommer dan het achtereind van een varken” zei, en niet “achterlijker dan tgat van en varken” ga ik ervanuit da ge van NL zijt en nie Vlaanderen)

So these two are both from the Netherlands and they aren’t the only ones who came to ask “what the actual fuck bruh?”. As I mentioned before, the Dutch and the Flemish indeed have a different way to go about these things.

@pfannkuch3n

The N word is still a bad word. Everyone learns about it in school. Even here in Germany we are smart enough to know that. What makes it even worse: He corrects himself and says “What a fucking asshole.”He associated the n-word with something negative.

Everyone learns about it in school I didn’t, at all... I’m glad Germany’s educational system provided you with that information but you must be aware that not every school is gonna teach about “bad words”.

About the other part, I don’t think it was a correction, more of an addition, but yeah he did very much use it as an insult, dick move.

@genagui

The n word is just as offensive in Spanish & in the Mexican culture... what kind of fuckery is this post ...

The not-so-nope

@cupcake669

This is sooo true. For example if you come to hungary most of the teenagers will say 'nigga' to each other all the time. Why? You might say because they are all racist. But nahh,that's just what they hear in musics,vines and shit like that,so they'll use it. We have a candy called Negro too,and funnily it doesn't have to do anything with racism,but I can imagine how a lot of people could misunderstand it.

SAME ^ (hear me out) I’ve seen a lot of people saying it’s not an excuse because everyone has the internet or whatever, but people learn English by context, very few people learn English with textbooks. The vast majority starts learning it through songs and movies and series, and later on the internet.

But we don’t browse the internet for English lessons, we just end up on sites we find entertaining that happen to be in English. When you’re young and use the internet in the beginning, most of it is gonna be sites where jokes are made, or funny videos are posted. And by reading those jokes you find new words you never heard before.

When you see a new word you don’t always go look it up, you barely ever look it up, 90% of the time you can kind of get an idea of what it means by the context, and the more often you see that word in different contexts, the better you understand the meaning of the word.

If it’s said in a convo you might ask the other “what does that mean?”, in that case the other isn’t gonna say “oh that’s a derogatory term towards people with a dark skincolour, who originate from Africa”. They’re just gonna say “that’s a black person”.

And even if you do look it up, you’ll get “a contemptuous term for a black or dark-skinned person.” which does indicate that it’s a “bad word” but “fuck” is also a “bad word”, so how is a non-native English teenager magically supposed to know that the n word is a completely different level of “bad word”?

Many people learn the word waaayyyy before they learn the true weight of it.

@angry-dark-babe

In my country it literally means black person so ye your argument is partially true. Though if you use it as a bad way of saying someone is black then it's not ok

@sock0nhead

I’m from norway and people genuinely don’t know that it’s controversial. Like even the really nice and innocent students from my school have said it before

@katnissindespair

In the Netherlands we have a word to name poc people, the official name in my country is negroes, which I find really weird to say. I would never say the n-word in an offensive manner.

@sorikym

The filipino equivalent of n*gger is negro and it literally means someone dark skinned like thats it. thats its meaning. so yes the word isn't universally bad. but then a again most if not all people are brown in the philippines thats why no one here is really offended??

@andyetanotherone

I kind of agree. I'm latina and where I live the oh so awful n-word isn't nearly as bad as it seems to be in the US. My friends use the word with their black friends and none of them take offense because they know it's not meant in a derogatory way.

@startlememe-trash

THIS^^^^^ in South America we all call each other by races and we don’t give a shit, lmao I was called negra my whole life and I never gave a crap.

@yueis

in spanish, sometimes "mi negro/a" is used as a term of endearment towards black hispanics. regardless, it is not the same as the n word

@twosideman

Negro for Argentinians can be a nickname for anyone with a darker skin colour or expression to refer to anyone .

@lastqueenofmars

nigger/nigga has rough translations in other countries.

@immortan-stark

Dude, in Spanish we say "negro" to refer to the colour black and black skinned people. You can also say "mi negro" and it's affectionated. It's not offensive. When I learned English and moved to England I understood that, in English speaking nations the word is a slur. Everyone, even this youtube guy, who has some knowledge of English knows this is not acceptable, regardless your nationality/mother tongue. It's a matter of respect.

Yup, agreed.

@supermodelindisguise

OP is right though. The intensity of the offense varies. Its still a word that shouldn’t be used, and still holds offense.

The funny one

@eyesonxiu

Uhmmmm actually nigger isn't a derogatory racial slur here in my country :)))) it means friendship and that's the word we usually use to symbolize friendship so just because nigger is a slur for you doesn't mean it's one for me :)))))))) who cares if the word itself is racist and dehumanizing :))))??? 🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃

lmao, good one

Part 5 will finally be about Felix, all of the previous was completely beside his last fuckup and was merely a general convo about the different variations of the n word and their meanings and nuance.

#felix fucked up

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granvarones · 7 years

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Louie: Where did you grow?

Armando: Whenever people ask me where I grew up, I always say this verbatim: “I grew up in Naples, Florida, a white retirement heaven. There’s literally a golf course on every corner.” Naples, like much of southwest Florida, was a pretty affluent town where brown and black peoples provided cheap labor for benevolent rich white folk. Yes, there were also poor whites who lived next to poor people of color. They were next to us, but rarely with us.

I grew up in the U.S. and in Mexico, moving back and forth between both countries until I was seven years old. As a kid I lived in Houston, Texas, in a rancho near Yuriria, Guanajuato, and in Naples, FL, where my family settled in 1993. Yes, there are Mexicans in Florida, it’s not just Cubans and Puerto Ricans – I have to say this because it confuses people that I am Mexican but not from Cali or Texas.

Now, as an old (maybe wiser?) 31-year-old, I cannot think of Naples without thinking about how racist and segregated the city is, about how difficult it was for my family and others like us to make a living. About the camouflage trucks with the confederate flags, about the time a white guy at the flea market said “These damn wetbacks” when he saw my dad and I walk past his store, and all my dad could do was hold my hand and shake his head “no” when I turned to look at the guy. That is how I grew up in Naples.

Louie: What is your first memory you have of knowing you were gay/queer?

Armando: I remember watching telenovelas and being enamored with both the female leads and the hot muscular male actors. I started watching more gay porn than straight porn, but I never told anyone that I watched porn at all, let alone that I liked to see dick on screen. I never told anyone those things. It wasn’t because I thought there was anything wrong with finding both men and women attractive, or that it was wrong to masturbate to men having sex with both men and women. I didn’t tell anyone because the world around me said that sex was wrong (thank you Catholicism!), and that men identifying in any way with women were despicable. Ironically, I never identified with the women or the men in porn, or the tops or bottoms for that matter. I identified with the act of sex, period, but since I was told that sex was wrong, it also meant that sexual pleasure itself was also wrong. My family taught me that lesson.

If you were to ask me when I first verbalized to myself that I was attracted to other men, I would say that happened in college. The summer after my junior year I spent a lot of time with a boy friend of mine that I felt particularly and affectionately attached to. I wasn’t at all sexually aroused by him, but I would feel “at home” with him whenever we hung out, geeked out over our research, or talked about what we wanted to do in graduate school. It was a nerdy kind of love that had less to do with sexual organs and more to do with heart and emotional intimacy. I was also in love with a woman at the time, and although I loved her like I did him, my attachment to him was different. I didn’t think of myself as “gay” or “queer” then, either, but I knew that what I felt for him was different than what I had felt before.

“Gay” and “queer” were words that others had always used to describe me in order to hurt me. In college, gay and queer men of color were no different, they too aimed these words toward me to violently force me out of a closet I never knew I was in. To them, like to my family, I was in the closet. To me, I simply existed in a world that attempts to regularize sexuality as either/or, straight or gay, abominable or pleasurable, when all I wanted was to simply exist.

Louie: It’s been a year since Pulse, what do you think the impact has been on Latinx queer communities?

Armando: This is perhaps the hardest question to answer, Louie. I am and I am not part of a Latinx queer community. The truth is that I live in Pittsburgh, where I am not part of a community like that. I know there are queer Latinxs in the city. I know of them. There are a few of us, but my everyday life is not anchored in a queer of color space or community here. I am part a network of queer Latinx academics, and I can speak to how vocal we have all been about Pulse and queer Latinx lives in the aftermath of the massacre. I think that a queer Latinx presence has grown significantly on social media and it is vocally active in affecting change in light of Pulse. The same goes for queer Latinx academics. Our work, our lives are very much desiring to change the invisibility and social reality of communities of color, especially queer and trans Latinx lives.

I recently went back on Grindr. As a platform, I think this app can sometimes bring out the worst in us, myself included, and we can become complicit in the very systems that oppress us. A few months ago I chatted with this guy on the app. A brown-skinned Mexicano from Orlando. He had a gorgeous face and body – I’m talking six pack, bubble butt, nice dick, beautiful tattoos. But, as my girlfriend put it, “it was prettier when it didn’t talk.” As we start planning to meet, he tells me that people in Pittsburgh were not attractive, that Pittsburgh people are obese. About guys on Grindr he says, “que feos, hay muchos negros y gordos.” To him, black men and men without six-packs are naturally ugly, fat, and inferior. I said nothing. He must’ve sensed he messed up because he followed up with “hehe eso suena racista.” All I could muster up in response was “Yes, very.” Not to mention fat-phobic. Not to mention that here is a person, an immigrant (he was originally from the Mexican state of Michoacán), a queer of color living in Orlando – the site of one of the largest massacres of queer people in this country’s history – living his life as if Pulse and the lives lost there meant nothing. That “we” have learned nothing. Like many others, his imaginary of the world is still shaped by a brand of whiteness dictating that only light-skinned bodies with six-pack abs and bubble butts are worthy of desire, that only those bodies are worthy of being desirable. Even he, as physically beautiful as he thinks he is, cannot fit on that scale of beauty. He isn’t white. Neither am I. But he thinks his physical perfection outweighs the color of his skin, and that his beauty puts him far away from the queers of color whose bodies were destroyed at Pulse. I wish I could say that things for Latinx queer communities had gotten better after the massacre, but for some of us, things are far from getting better. Some lives are still worth more than others.

Armando García, Pittsburgh, PA

Interviewed and Photographed by: Louie A. Ortiz-Fonseca

#thegranvarones #granvarones #queer #gay #mexicano #immigrant #gay latinos #latinx #storytelling #Oral History #orgullo #pride #gay pride #pride month #lgbtq #portrait #family #coming out #qpoc

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marklakbay · 7 years

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Smiles in a City Miles Away

Expectations bring heart breaks as they say. Oh well, of course, I had expected people to bring justice to this city’s tourism branding. Nevertheless, even if not all people there have smiling faces, the way they speak is very sweet and affectionate. This is already a late blog for my 3-day trip to Bacolod City, if you guessed it right.

I was too excited to see the smiling people welcoming us at the airport, but was disappointed by what was there. Maybe the personnel were just tired or hungry because we arrived before lunch time or the weather is too hot and the air-conditioner is not functioning well. Smile, people of the City of Smiles! The only exception to the people were a jeepney conductor and the driver we encountered in one of our commutes there. I felt their genuine laughter and warmth in accommodating and helping us go to places we don’t know.

Food in Bacolod

Of course, we can’t live without food! We haven’t tried all the must-eats there, but the food we had were amazing and recommendable

1. Sandok

That vegetable soup (forgot the name, but similar to our Ilocano Dinengdeng) stood out. It tasted so fresh and organic. The laing was also recommendable. Eating here feels like home. The waitress said they have three branches already. I was attracted by the blockbuster-ish people I saw eating there. One lesson I learned from my father was to trust food establishments with lots of people, so we would be quite sure they serve only freshly cooked meals.

2. Aida’s Manokan

Eat them with bare hands! This Chicken Inasal tasted better and more authentic than the ones from the famous Mang Inasal food chain. Of course, the usual dip I chose among the condiments was calamansi, chili and soy sauce. Don’t forget also to sprinkle some Chicken oil on your rice. Their Fish Sinigang was also the recommendable. The warmth and spice of the soup was ecstatic for me as a Filipino and chili lover.

3. Calea

Literal sugar rush! I ordered six of their best, or as recommended by their crew for the five of us. Savored the sweet and heavenly goodness of every slice served in each plate. Then, I forgot to drink my water. I experienced headache, cold sweats, and rumbling stomach. Maybe that was hyperglycemia experienced by lots of diabetics. I turned okay after drinking two bottles of water.

As I said, we haven’t gone to all those must-eats in Bacolod, so there’s more to look forward to my next travel there.

Picturesque Locations

1. The Ruins

Iconic centuries-old structure.

2. Balay Negrense

I was amazed by the story of this 1930s fridge that was gas-powered, yet only served as a cooler. According to the site’s guide, Ice before can only be ordered from Europe which would arrive after about 3 to 4 months.

3. Bacolod Public Plaza

4. San Sebastian Cathedral

5. Negros Occidental Provincial Capitol

6. Negros Forests and Ecological Foundation Inc.

7. Lacson Street Night Market

So there, ladies, gents and us in between, the Smiles from Miles Away.

#travel #bacolod #philippines

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chocolateheal · 6 years

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Ten Mind Numbing Facts About Chocolate From | chocolate from

The agreeable adventures and consistent career of Dom Flemons accept been all over the place, from what he was alert to as a kid to the ambit of instruments he’s abstruse to comedy to a continued run as a founding affiliate of the Carolina Chocolate Drops appropriate up to his accepted appearance as a abandoned artist. Which is how he’ll be accomplishing a show, featuring songs from his newest recording, “Black Cowboys,” at Club Passim on Nov. 25.

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Reached by buzz at his home in Silver Springs, MD, Flemons, 36, who grew up in Phoenix, said he started with drums and percussion, dating aback to his brand academy days. Fascinated by a PBS documentary on the history of bedrock ’n’ cycle back he was in inferior aerial school, he became absorbed in “everything from Louis Jordan and Muddy Waters all the way through Elvis and Carl Perkins and Fats Domino. One adventure was on the folk awakening of the ’60s and how it adapted into the Summer of Love in California, so that got me alert to the actuality from the Monterey Pop Festival.”

He began arena guitar and again harmonica back he was about 16, his agreeable interests led him into aboriginal New Orleans jazz, and afore continued he was arena the banjo. By the time Flemons was earning his English amount at Northern Arizona University, he was consistently arena out, either in coffeehouses or busking on artery corners, accompanying himself on guitar, advancing up as a folk act with a affection for interpreting old-time songs, generally casting in a brace of originals.

Flemons’ activity would booty a affecting change – one that set him on the advance of acceptable a able artist – when, in 2005, he headed east and acclimatized bottomward in Durham, North Carolina, area he would anon anatomy the folkie, old-timey Carolina Chocolate Drops with Rhiannon Giddens and Justin Robinson. But article had happened a few years earlier, that would put him on the alley he still travels.

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“I happened to see Dave Van Ronk in Phoenix in 2002, six or seven months afore he passed,” said Flemons. “That afflicted my accomplished angle in agreement of cerebration about aloof arena music to arena the music and cogent a story, whether it’s a actual antiquity or a claimed anecdote. That’s what I took abroad from that Van Ronk appearance and article I still do in my shows now.”

Between the songs at Chocolate Drops performances, Flemons would acquaint affluence of belief about those songs. The bandage accomplished all-embracing acclamation and won a Acceptable Folk Anthology Grammy for their 2011 absolution “Genuine Negro Jig.” But afterwards nine years with the group, it was time for Flemons to bang out on his own. He accepted that he was initially aloof a tad nervous.

“When you leave a accumulation that’s successful, that’s consistently a applesauce shoot,” he said. “I’d apparent what happened with the Temptations. [Lead singer] David Ruffin larboard the group, jumped out, capital to be his own man, but he aloof sunk. So, the way I approved to abstain a adventure like that was to actualize a persona of the American Songster. A accompanist played a array of material, and back that’s what I did, too – actuality a country accompanist and a dejection accompanist – that declared what I did added than aloof actuality a folk singer.”

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His 2014 anthology “Prospect Hill” covered all sorts of old-timey folkie terrain, while “Black Cowboys” is added focused on, as the appellation suggests, cowboy songs.

“I’ve consistently been a fan of cowboy music, although I’ve never performed it exclusively,” said Flemons. “But I apprehend the book “The Negro Cowboys” by Philip Durham, and again I listened to the acceptable anthology anthology ‘Black Texicans.’ That’s back I started to anticipate about how I capital to ability the adventure atramentous cowboys. I affective every cowboy anthology I had and approved to acquisition the songs that I acquainted told the best story.”

Flemons may be arena and cogent those belief abandoned on the Club Passim stage, but there will affluence of instruments to accumulate him company.

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“I’ll accept two guitars, one in accepted affability and one in accessible tuning,” he said. “I’ll additionally be bringing my harmonicas, my four-string banjo, a alembic banjo, my accent bones, and my quills.”

And he promises that the show’s ambit will go far above aloof what’s on the new album.

“It presents affectionate of an overview of aggregate I’ve done,” he said. “So, admirers of the Chocolate Drops will get some old-time music, like they heard in the group. I additionally accommodate songs from ‘Prospect Hill’ and, of course, ‘Black cowboys,’ and some of the actuality from my beforehand two annal that are out of print. It’s a nice array of things I’ve done through my career. I anticipate that as an alone performer, I’ve crafted a nice set that feels good.”

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Dom Flemons AKA The American Accompanist performs at Club Passim in Cambridge on Nov. 25 at 8 p.m. Kevin Burt opens. Tickets: $25. Info: 617-492-7679.

Ed Symkus can be accomplished at [email protected].

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pittlit2018-blog · 6 years

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Benito Cereno and Putnam's Monthly

Emily Gallagher

"Seguid vuestro jefe (Follow your leader)"

These were the words written in chalk beneath the figurehead of the ship the San Dominick. They are the words that appear frequently throughout Benito Cereno, a novella based upon true events. Authored by Herman Melville, it first appeared in three issues of the magazine Putnam’s Monthly in 1855, during the months October, November, and December. The most impactful and haunting usage of these words in Benito Cereno is arguably in the lengthy, last sentence:

“The body was burned to ashes; but for many days, the head, that hive of subtlety, fixed on the pole in the Plaza, met, unabashed, the gaze of the whites; and across the Plaza looked towards St. Bartholomew’s church, in whose vaults slept then, as now, the recovered bones of Aranda: and across the Rimac bridge looked towards the monastery, on Mount Agonia without; where, three months after being dismissed by the court, Benito Cereno, borne on the bier, did, indeed, follow his leader.”

-from Putnam's Monthly, vol. 6, p. 644

https://66.media.tumblr.com/0ffcdc6f5cc630d3693e374210fde701/tumblr_phqe8feclX1xljixdo1_400.jpg

(Illus. engraved on wood by Garrick Palmer for the Imprint Society edition of Benito Cereno, 1972)

So what does this all mean? Which leader did Benito follow? These are the questions that immediately came to my mind when I finished reading the last line of Benito Cereno. I figured Herman Melville emphasized “follow your leader” for a reason, one that ultimately dealt with the issue of slavery in the US during the year it was published, 1855. In order to understand the conclusion I came to, one must know the basic details of the novella.

Benito Cereno is told from the perspective of Captain Delano, who comes across a disheveled ship named the San Dominick, with many African slaves aboard. He meets the captain, a Spaniard named Don Benito Cereno, along with his seemingly faithful slave Babo. Benito tells Delano that their dire state was caused by storms and an outbreak of disease, so Delano offers his help. The great twist is that the slaves aboard the ship had revolted and taken over, with Babo as their leader. Babo killed his old master and Benito’s friend, Alexandro Aranda, and had Benito under his control the entire time. At the end of the story, Babo is captured and sentenced to death. As stated in the passage above, his head is mounted on a pole, and Benito Cereno dies soon after as well.

But why did Melville say Benito “[followed] his leader”? Was he following his friend Aranda in death, or the slave Babo who had succeeded in controlling him?

I interpreted it as Benito following Babo, who had outsmarted him. I thought Babo’s remarkable actions were used by Melville to dispute the belief that blacks had to be enslaved because they were naturally inferior to whites in intelligence.

However, as I read other articles published in Putnam’s Monthly during the year 1855 through the HathiTrust digital library, as well as visited Special Collections to look at a physical copy from the year 1853 (unfortunately, the 1855 version was not suitable for being handled), I realized that my interpretation of Benito Cereno was not the only one, and may be different from the original audience who read it during its year of publication.

https://66.media.tumblr.com/5c3b40ddce28902b74d386e8e8a588b2/tumblr_phqco9VN9k1xljixdo1_1280.jpg

https://66.media.tumblr.com/e06bed07fc8b9cf860d9c52e8b9a9719/tumblr_phqcsvI5zZ1xljixdo1_1280.jpg

(Special Collection's edition of Putnam's Monthly, vol. 2, 1853)

Although Putnam’s Monthly was considered a progressive magazine during its time, containing many abolitionist publications, “the question of slavery,” was still widely debated by its editors and readers, so I discovered while reading. Knowing what historical events were happening during this year in America helped me understand how readers received Melville’s work.

One article titled “The Kansas Question,” which I found in vol. 6, July to December, of Putnam’s Monthly (the same section as Benito Cereno), was particularly helpful in giving me historical context. According to the article, there was a period of political quiet in 1850, but by 1855 the “flames of former feud, extinguished for a brief time, were kindled once more,” (vol.6: 425) and the “question of slavery” became important to nearly everyone. Thus, Benito Cereno was published during a year of heavy discourse on slavery in the US, meaning its contents were extremely relevant.

While reading “The Kansas Question,” I learned that the widespread interest in slavery was largely caused by the Kansas-Nebraska bill of 1854, which repealed the Missouri Compromise, allowing those living in Kansas and Nebraska to decide whether or not to allow slavery. This article offers a progressive viewpoint, with the author criticizing those they called the “propagandists of slavery,” as well as reminding readers that when the Constitution was formed slavery “existed as an acknowledged evil” (428) that was supposed to be temporary. The author speaks out against the greed that caused slaveholders to “[ransack] physiological science, to establish the inferiority of the black race, and the consequent duty of protecting it and educating it to labor” (429). He even points out the flawed logic of this argument, asking “of what use to the slave, or to his race, would be an education protracted to the hour of his death” (430)?

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(The Kansas Nebraska Act from Kansas Historical Society, 1854)

From the contents of this article, it is evident that the readers of Putnam’s Monthly were being exposed to the arguments of pro-slavery and the rebuttals to said arguments. I started to get the idea that many of the magazine’s readers were likely northerners who were anti-slavery, or at least people open-minded enough to read about criticism of certain pro-slavery arguments. Perhaps then, its readers would have held a similar perspective to mine on the intelligent nature of Babo, and received the text as abolitionist literature.

Along with the variety of articles, I found the Editorial Notes in Putnam’s Monthly to make it a very interesting source. During the length of Putnam’s run, I discovered there were numerous editors. The year Benito Cereno was published was the last year the founder, George Palmer Putnam, worked on the magazine (with the assistance of many others). In the November vol. 6 "Editorial Notes on American Literature and Reprints," the books listed give information on what the editors and readers of Benito Cereno were also reading at the time.

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(Editorial Notes on "English Literature" in Special Collection's edition of Putnam's Monthly, vol. 2, 1853)

One such book mentioned is the Life and Bondage of Frederick Douglass, one of the most significant, if not the most significant, American slave narratives. Douglass is very favorably received by the editors of Putnam’s, who mention that it is remarkable “that the member of an outcast and enslaved race should accomplish his freedom, and educate himself up to an equality of intellectual and moral vigor with the leaders of the race by which he was held in bondage” (547). Having read Douglass’ Narrative myself, I believe that if the readers of Benito Cereno also read it, they would have been less likely to doubt Babo’s intelligence, and more likely to see his enslavement as unjust, since Douglass himself achieved freedom through literacy. Reading Douglass would undoubtedly have impacted how one received Benito Cereno.

While the previous two passages I mentioned displayed anti-slavery viewpoints, the stories in Putnam’s Monthly did contain some pro-slavery views, with many authors reinforcing negative stereotypes held towards Africans at the time. I was exposed to these views while reading an article titled “Negro Minstrelsy––Ancient and Modern,” which appeared in vol. 5 of Putnam’s Monthly during the month of January, 1855.

The author of this article writes about “the lightness and prevailing good humor of the negro songs,” which he believes “results directly from the character and habits of the colored race” (vol.5: 72). He asserts that “the negro is humorous rather than witty, and his comic songs consist of ludicrous images,” (77) rather than wit.

This author represents those who believed in the stereotype of the happy-go-lucky and unintelligent African, which slaveholders created to justify their actions, proclaiming they were helping a lesser, simple-minded race. While his claims are ludicrous to me, they reminded me that undoubtedly some readers of Benito Cereno believed these stereotypes.

I imagine then, that they would have perceived the slave Babo differently than I, more similar to that of Captain Delano, who never suspects Babo. Delano views Babo as another unintelligent slave, incorrectly labeling his threats towards Benito as acts of “affectionate zeal...which [have] gained for the negro the repute of making the most pleasing body servant in the world” (vol.6: 356-357). Perhaps readers influenced by these stereotypes would have considered the slave rebellion to be a result of the mismanagement of slaves; a reminder that whites must properly maintain control over them.

https://66.media.tumblr.com/d40741e202d3a025f75f855f722cba47/tumblr_phqcviLTUX1xljixdo1_250.gif

(Special Collection's edition of Putnam's Monthly, vol. 2, 1853)

After reading a variety of articles from Putnam’s Monthly, I realize that I cannot be certain whether Melville intended Babo to be a heroic or evil figure, nor can I conclude if he meant Benito Cereno to be an abolitionist text. I do think it's likely he made the story’s meaning purposefully vague.

What I can conclude is that the year and location it was published played a big role in the novella’s success. American citizens were ready to discuss and debate slavery in the year 1855, and Putnam’s Monthly fueled the discourse. During this time of extreme opinion, of course a text like Benito Cereno, capable of being interpreted in different ways, would become so popular. Abolitionist text or not, Benito Cereno is remarkable in the way it got its readers to think and discuss.

Works Cited:

"Kansas Nebraska Act." Kansas Memory, Kansas State Historical Society, www.kansasmemory.org/item/

488.

Melville, Herman. Benito Cereno. Compiled by Lawrance Thompson, illustrated by Garrick Palmer,

Imprint Society, 1972.

Putnam's Monthly Magazine of American Literature, Science, and Art. Vol. 2, July-December 1853.

Putnam's Monthly Magazine of American Literature, Science, and Art. Vol. 5, January-July 1855,

babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=njp.32101076404993;view=1up;seq=9.

Putnam's Monthly Magazine of American Literature, Science, and Art. Vol. 6, July-December 1855,

babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.32044092794429;view=1up;seq=5;size=125.

#Melville #submission

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jarenihtbony-stories · 6 years

Text

Desiree's Baby

As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmonde drove over to L'Abri to see Desiree and the baby. It made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar. The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame Valmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere - the idol of Valmonde. It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles. Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.

Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. When she reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master's easy-going and indulgent lifetime. The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself. Madame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child. "This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the language spoken at Valmonde in those days. "I knew you would be astonished," laughed Desiree, "at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails - real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn't it true, Zandrine?" The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, "Mais si, Madame." "And the way he cries," went on Desiree, "is deafening. Armand heard him the other day as far away as La Blanche's cabin." Madame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze across the fields. "Yes, the child has grown, has changed," said Madame Valmonde, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. "What does Armand say?" Desiree's face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.

"Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not - that he would have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn't true. I know he says that to please me. And mamma," she added, drawing Madame Valmonde's head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, "he hasn't punished one of them - not one of them - since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work - he only laughed, and said Negrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightens me." What Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had softened Armand Aubigny's imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand's dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her. When the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Desiree was miserable enough to die. She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little quadroon boys - half naked too - stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over and over. "Ah!" It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face.

She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes. She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the picture of fright. Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it. "Armand," she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he was human. But he did not notice. "Armand," she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. "Armand," she panted once more, clutching his arm, "look at our child. What does it mean? Tell me." He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him. "Tell me what it means!" she cried despairingly. "It means," he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it means that you are not white." A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with unwonted courage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are gray. And my skin is fair," seizing his wrist. "Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand," she laughed hysterically. "As white as La Blanche's," he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone with their child. When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame Valmonde. "My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live." The answer that came was brief: "My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who loves you. Come with your child." When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words. He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones sharp with agonized suspense. "Yes, go." "Do you want me to go?" "Yes, I want you to go." He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name. She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back. "Good-by, Armand," she moaned. He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse's arms with no word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches. It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton. Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze. A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality.

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband's love:-- "But above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery."

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