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brokcnbutunbowcd · 3 years

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she laughs like god (her mind's like a diamond)

Alright, so here’s the first part of the Meda Wayne story I was talking about writing! I had so much fun with this, and I really want to know what you all think so please do let me know, and feel free to reblog this if you like it! Just some notes about this story:

1. For the purposes of this story, I've aged James Gordon, Jr. from an infant to about eight years old. I have a very firm timeline for this story, and this is something that just made it work better.

2. In this story, Barbara Gordon is James Gordon's biological daughter.

3. I got the math wrong, so I'm just pretending that Anastasia came out in 1998 because I really like that theme for this story. Meda was born in 1993, which would've made her five in 1998.

4. Right now, the story contains elements from Batman: Year One, as well as Catwoman: Her Sister's Keeper and Batman Annual 13: Waiting in the Wings, if you want to read along.

I also cross-posted this to AO3, which I’ll link at the bottom if you want to check it out there!

It was a chilly December day before the night that Meda Wayne’s life was set on the course that would define it. Only, she wasn’t Meda Wayne back then, you see, Gotham’s beloved daughter and heiress to the Wayne family fortune. No, she was just a little girl named Meda Carter, and although she knew she didn’t have very much, she was happy. Her mother and father were the kindest, best people in the world in her eyes, and even though they lived in a small apartment in the Narrows, (which even at five, Meda could understand meant a not-very-nice part of Gotham) she knew herself to be very lucky.

On the particular morning our story starts, Meda was sitting on the couch in what could charitably be called her living room, bouncing up and down in anticipation. It was the first day of Christmas break, and her father had brought in enough money from his odd jobs around the city to take the little family out to the movies. The little girl had been wanting to see this particular film for weeks now, and she couldn’t believe she had to wait all day before they could leave. Her mother had suggested she distract herself by turning on the television, and so there Meda was, flipping through the channels when she stopped on something curious.

She recognized one of the news programs from the blue ribbon wrapped around the bottom of the screen, but instead of the usual flashing lights and crime scene tape that she’d come to associate with the news, the camera was focused on a man, walking through what appeared to be an airport. He was young and handsome, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. He was surrounded by reporters and cameramen, and a curious Meda turned up the volume on the television to hear what the reporter was saying about him.

“The twenty-five year old heir to the Wayne billions declined to comment on the rumors of romance in his life, or on his plans on his return to Gotham after twelve years abroad,” a woman with a short brown bob was saying.

“Who’s that, mommy?” Meda asked as her mother entered the room from the bedroom.

Eliza Carter glanced at the TV and blinked in surprise. “That’s Bruce Wayne.” She took a seat next to her daughter on the couch and stared at the screen intently. “Wonder what brought him back to town.”

“Probably got bored of running through his trust fund in Europe,” James Carter said as he came into the room. He leaned down to give his wife a kiss on the cheek and his daughter one on the forehead. “Morning, girls.”

“What’s a trust fund?” Meda asked curiously.

“It’s a big bank account that rich people have,” her father explained, lifting her up and settling her on his lap. “You know the big tower in the middle of the city?” Meda nodded, “That’s his family’s company. He owns it. And he lives in a big house on the outskirts of Gotham City that our apartment could fit in over a hundred times.”

“No way!” Meda exclaimed.

“Way!” Her father confirmed, then sighed. “And it all belongs to that one lucky S.O.B.”

“What’s an S.O.B?” Meda asked, confused.

“James,” her mother chided, with a glance in her daughter’s direction. “Be nice.You know what the poor man’s been through.”

“Bad things happen to people every day in this town,” her father countered. “The rest of us don’t have a mansion and a billion-dollar fortune to fall back on.”

“What bad thing happened to him?” Meda asked, pointing at the screen.

“Don’t you go giving a thought to people like Bruce Wayne, sweetheart,” her father said dismissively. “Lord knows he doesn’t give a thought to people like us.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Meda Carter had no way of knowing, but this day was significant for more than just Bruce Wayne’s return to town. It also marked the arrival of one Lieutenant James Gordon to Gotham City. He was met with far less fanfare than Bruce Wayne was, taking the train into the city and being joined by only one detective, Flass, before his meeting with Commissioner Loeb.

He’d had a bad feeling about the department from the moment he met Flass, and now he knew his first judgement to have been the correct one. After watching the detective brutalize a teenager for no reason other than standing in his line of sight, Jim knew this shouldn’t be the place he was raising his family. Still, he reminded himself that this was his best shot. After what had happened in Chicago, he needed it. His family needed it. And if all this fresh start required of him was that he keep his mouth shut, then he could do that.

He hoped.

He was called out to his first crime scene that night. Double homicide, the Narrows. Typrical, according to Flass as they drove their way to the scene.

Getting out of the car nearly before the car had even stopped, Jim approached the responding officer and asked, “What’ve we got?”

The officer looked young, and a little green. The violence that was so prevalent in Gotham must not have jaded him yet. Jim felt sorry for the poor kid. “We’ve got a double, sir, husband and wife shot in what we think was a botched robbery. James and Eliza Carter, both twenty-four. Husband worked as a handy-man around the city, wife was a store clerk.”

“Who called 9-1-1?”

“The neighbor, sir. She’s a hooker, was with a john when it happened. Didn’t see the guy before or after. She called the police when she heard the witness screaming.”

“Witness?” Jim was surprised. That hadn’t come through over the radio. He turned to look at Flass, who shrugged in a what-can-you-do type manner. “What witness?”

“Couple’s daughter.” The officer pointed to the crowd of vehicles with flashing lights surrounding the scene. There, in the center, was an ambulance. A small child was sitting in the back, shivering, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Looks like the family interrupted the perp when they came home. Place is ransacked.”

Jim cursed. “How old is she?”

“Five, sir.”

Jim sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “Want me to take her statement, Jimmy?” Flass asked.

“No!” Jim said too quickly. Clearing his throat, he said more softly this time, “No. I’ll do it.”

“Suit yourself.”

He let out one more sigh before steadying himself and making his way over to the ambulance. As he approached, he got a better look at the girl. Her hair was plaited down the back in two neat, black braids, and her green eyes were filled with tears. Her jeans were covered in blood. She looked up as he approached, still shaking. Nodding to the paramedics, he took a seat on the back of the ambulance next to her, careful to leave enough room so as not to frighten her. Scared children were a bit like scared animals, he’d discovered. You had to work to earn their trust.

“Hi there,” he said gently. She said nothing. “Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” She mumbled something that he couldn’t entirely make out. “What was that?”

“My name is Meda Carter,” she said, a little louder, with the pride that only little children could show for their own names.

“Meda,” he repeated it to himself. “That’s a beautiful name.” She murmured her thanks, and he had to smile a bit. Even after what she’d seen, she hadn’t forgotten her manners. She must’ve been raised well. “Can you tell me what happened tonight, Meda?”

She was quiet for so long that Jim wondered if she would speak at all, when finally she said, “We were coming home from the movies.”

He waited for more. When none came, he asked, “What movie did you see?”

“Anastasia.”

“Was it good?”

She nodded. “It was sad, but it had a happy ending.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, then lowered his voice. “What happened when you came home?”

Tears flooded her eyes anew and she started to sob. Jim instinctively put an arm around her and pulled her into his side, making soothing motions on her back the way he had with Barbara and James when they were very young. She wept into his chest for a long time, until she seemed to be all cried out and pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I got tears all over your shirt.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” he told her. “Don’t you worry about a thing. If you’re not ready to talk tonight, we can wait. We can-”

“No,” she said, surprisingly firmly. “You need my help, right? To find the man who hurt my parents?” Her voice quivered, but she met his eyes steadily.

Jim hesitated. “Yes, we do.”

Nodding, she took a deep breath before beginning. “We were coming home from the movies,” she said again. “When we got home, there was a man standing in our living room. He had a gun in his hand. My daddy went to stand in front of us, and then there was a really loud bang, and he fell to the floor, and then mommy screamed, and she fell to the floor, and he just looked at me and ran out of the room.” She said all this in a rush, as if to get it all out before she dissolved into tears again.

“That’s great, you’re doing real great, sweetheart.” Jim encouraged her. “Can you tell me what he looked like.”

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes. “He was young. Younger than my daddy, I think.” That was promising. Jim made a mental note of it before turning his attention back to Meda. “He had brown hair, and eyes too I think. I don’t really remember that well.”

“That’s okay. Just tell me what you can remember.”

“He was tall,” she continued. “And real skinny.”

“How tall? Taller than me?” Jim stood to his full height.

Meda nodded. “And skinnier than you, too.”

Jim laughed. Meda didn’t seem to know what it was she’d said that was funny, but she gave a watery smile nonetheless. “Lots of people are. Tell me, was he taller than Detective Flass over there?” He pointed to the tall blonde detective, still speaking with the responding officer.

She thought about it, before shaking her head. “About the same height, I think.”

“Good. That’s perfect, Meda, you did a wonderful job.” The adrenaline seemed to have drained out of her, and she slumped against his side.

“Lieutenant Gordon?”

Jim looked up to see a dark-haired woman looking at him expectantly. “I’m with Social Services. If you’re finished with Meda, we’d like to take her for the night, now.”

Meda started shaking again at the woman’s words, and Jim held up a hand to give him a moment. “Meda,” he said softly. “I’m going to go talk to this woman for a minute, and then we’re going to take care of you, alright? I promise.”

She still looked petrified, but she nodded bravely, and Jim gave her shoulder one last squeeze before getting up and leading the woman a short distance away. Lowering his voice to make sure the little girl couldn’t hear, he asked, “You’re taking her to a group home?” The woman nodded. “She’s just been through a massive trauma. She should be with family.”

“I agree,” the woman said, not unkindly. “But she has no family. We checked. Both parents were only children. Her last grandparent died last year. The Carter’s were very young, and seemed to have lost touch with a lot of their friends. There’s simply no one to take her in.”

“Lieutenant Gordon?”

Jim turned to see an older woman with graying hair and a warm smile standing behind him. “Yes?”

“I’m Dr. Leslie Thompkins. I run the clinic down the street. The Carter’s and their daughter were patients of mine.” When he nodded, she continued on, “I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion, and, well…”

“You’d be willing to take her in?” Jim asked hopefully. “Just for now, until we figure something out?”

“Not me, no,” Dr. Thompkins said. She smiled. “I think I know someone even better.”

______________________________________________________________________________

It was clear to even the most sheltered passerby that Bruce Wayne did not belong there. Everything from his salon-styled hair to his designer boots was stood out in this run-down, hopeless place. As he strode through the people in uniform and the paramedics, each one, without fail, stopped to stare. It was a good thing he’d driven his own car. He expected being chauffeured by your butler would’ve made him look even more spoiled and pampered.

He sighed. Another complication.

If he was going to go forward with his crusade, (and he was going forward with it, no matter what scheme Leslie had cooked up to dissuade him), he needed to be someone other than Gotham’s young prince. Too bad he couldn’t figure out what that was.

He pasted the careless smile on his face that he’d been honing to perfection as he made his way past the flashing lights and sirens to the ambulance where the little girl still waited. He turned to one of the officers posted on the street and asked, “Is that her?”

The man gawked at him. “Uh, yes, sir.”

“Great.” Bruce flashed a grin and strolled off towards the child, his careful mask slipping when he caught sight of her knees, painted red. And suddenly he was transported to another night, another street, another child kneeling in a pool of his parents’ blood.

The memories. He couldn’t escape them.

At his approach, the child looked up and stared at him with wide eyes. Whether she was frightened or in awe of him, he couldn’t tell.

“Meda?” he asked gently, getting down on his knees so he could be at her level when talking to her. “I’m-”

“I know who you are,” she cut him off. So she did recognize him, then. “I saw you on the news this morning.”

He gave her a small smile that she didn’t return. “I just got back into town. I heard…I heard that something really bad might’ve happened to you tonight.” She looked down at her feet and didn’t reply. “You know, when I was about your age, just a little bit older, something really bad happened to me, too.” She looked up at him then, head tilted in curiosity. “You see, a very bad man hurt both of my parents, too.” Her eyes widened.

“Did they die, too?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, ignoring the stab of pain he felt at talking about it. “Dr. Thompkins is a friend of mine. You remember her, right?” She nodded. “She thought…that is, she felt it might be good if you came to stay with me for a while. With someone who understands.” She continued to look at him, face impassive. “You don’t have to, of course. But is that something that might be okay with you?”

“Yes,” she said, surprisingly quickly.

“Are you sure,” he asked, startled by the rapid response and her quick trust in a stranger after what had happened to her. “Because-”

She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, do I?”

Biting his lip, he shook his head. Meda let out one final sob, and looked up at him, her gaze suddenly steady.

“Then yes.”

AN: Next up is Meda's first introduction to Alfred and the Manor, so stay tuned for that! AO3 link is https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648013

#fanfiction #batman fanfiction #batfamily fanfiction #batman oc #batfamily oc #feel free to reblog

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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years

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snippets from an msr historical au

cleaning out my 2019 fic closet lol. this is excerpts of a historical au i did, based on a short au prompt i wrote in june here. it takes place in 1850s new york where scully and emily are irish immigrants who befriend mulder when he offers to tutor emily. i wrote these snippets months ago and it'll probably go unfinished, but i liked it too much to not share. so here is my scattered sense of world building.

---

Melissa had been the one to suggest the name. She had been there in the birthing room, the only one left after her mother had traveled to America with Bill and her father was gone and Charlie was in England. Daniel had been elsewhere, of course, it wasn't proper for husbands to be in the birthing room, and he upheld tradition stronger than she did, so it was Melissa and her friend the midwife, Melissa holding her hand, Melissa handing her the squalling babe. She had passed out from the pain and felt a rush of relief when she woke up again; she had feared she wouldn't wake up again after it was all over. She knew many women who had never met their children. Melissa had brought the baby back, the tiny child with their mother's eyes and a patch of bright hair, and Dana had filled with relief. If she had no one else in this marriage, which had long grown sour, she would have her daughter.

Melissa had suggested Emily because she loved Wuthering Heights, recently republished under the true name of its author. "It's a beautiful name, Dana, and perhaps, if she's lucky, she'll receive even an ounce of the creativity that comes with it," she had said, clutching the tiny hand in hers. "What a wonderful thing that would be."

That had been enough to convince her. Emily Margaret, she'd said, for her mother, far away in the heartlands of a country she would never see, and for her stepdaughter, who hated her fiercely, though she didn't live with them anymore. The girl hated her, for taking the place of her mother, but Dana saw it as a chance to make peace with the both of them. It did not work, though; Maggie had not had any interest in her sister, or in her stepmother, and Dana had long given up trying. Given up on the whole family, her husband included: he took little interest in her or his daughter, and when he did, it was in a possessive sort of manner that made her skin crawl. The medical lessons she'd received as a young woman were long gone, and he saw her only as the keeper of the house and of his child. He wanted more, but she refused.

When he'd died on the voyage over, a small, shameful part of her had been relieved. She would not have to pretend to love him anymore, to feel the same way as she had all those years before. But she had feared so greatly for her daughter, that the illness would take one of them, too. She knew life would be hard without a husband, as was the cruel and unfair way of the world (her mother had told her as a little girl as she braided her hair), but it would be impossible for Emily without her. She would end up alone in some horrible orphanage, neglected and abandoned. And Dana could not imagine life without her daughter now, imagine being alone in the city she'd heard so much about. She could not go out west alone, and she could not survive alone. She remembered lying in her small, cold, hard bunk, holding Emily's small figure close, her lips to her hot forehead and murmuring a prayer. And God had heard her prayers. Her daughter had lived, and she looked more and more like Melissa every day.

Emily often has questions about this, the family she will never know. When the two of them are lying in their bed, behind the makeshifts wall John had built to separate their tiny space from the rest of the equally tiny apartment (he and Barbara sleep in a bed on the other side, adjacent to the stove, and their boy Luke sleeps in a pallet on the floor), she will whisper questions about her father, her half sister, her aunt and her uncles and her grandparents. But it is often Daniel and Maggie, the family she will never know. "Did they love me?" she whispers. "Was Papa kind? Was Maggie beautiful?"

Dana offers some truths and some falsehoods, knowing she will never see either of them again, and therefore her stories will never be contradicted. Yes, Maggie was beautiful, although she mostly remembers a girl not ten years younger than her calling her a whore and a witch and a false mother. Yes, they loved her. No, Emily will never know her sister, because though she did love Emily (although Dana does not know if this is true), she did not feel the same for Dana. There is a picture that Daniel had made before they went, of Maggie, her hair combed nearly and gathered up, wearing her best dress, her cheeks thin, and Emily sitting on her lap, her face twisted with displeasure at having to sit still for quite so long. Emily loves to look at it, and of the faded portrait of the two of them on their wedding day, though Dana does not feel the same. But she allows Emily these frivolities. She cannot give her much more than that.

---

She meets him by accident one Sunday, her one and only day off from the factory. She and Emily go to Mass every Sunday, of course, and then she spends much of the day helping Barbara to clean, cook, do the laundry (she always does hers and Emily's, at least; though Barbara has the time in the day to do it, she will not accept the favor). She takes a rest, sometimes, or she spends time with Emily, playing jacks or cards (Luke Doggett taught her to gamble, and she cannot shake the habit), or with the worn rag doll she and Melissa had made for her in Ireland, or reading to her. Her favorite is a newer one by a man named Melville. Dana relishes the time alone with her daughter, as she is often too tired to do anything like this after work. She has meant to teach Emily to read and write herself, considering that she's too young to start school yet, and John claims that most children already know a bit before they begin school, but she's barely had the time to teach her more than a few words. Sometimes on Sundays, they have a brief lesson, but there is so little time in the week.

One Sunday, after Dana has hung the laundry, and scrubbed the floor, and washed the dishes, she decides to go and find Emily, thinking they can read another chapter of Melville, perhaps. (She likes the book, she will admit; it reminds her of her father and his stories of the sea.) She expects to find Emily on the tail of Luke and his friends—they are much older than her, but her lonely girl still follows her around like he is the brother she'll never have—but Luke claims he has not seen her. She finds her, finally, on the steps of the building, an old reader Luke had kept open on her lap, squinting furiously at the page. A man is sitting beside her, pointing out the words on the page, speaking in a calm and patient voice. Dana recognizes the man immediately as their neighbor, Mr. Mulder, a schoolteacher who she has spoken to in the hall before. She's seen him occasionally playing with the young boys in the building, or talking with the men and women about books, plays, politics, scientific discoveries. She'd had a particular long discussion with him once on the effects of anesthesia in medicine, which Daniel had commented on several times.

"Emily," she says, and Emily scrambles to her feet and runs to her side, beaming with excitement. "Mama, this is Mr. Mulder, the schoolteacher," she says in a rush, tugging at her skirt. "He saw me trying to read and he offered to help!"

"He did?" She strokes the top of her daughter's head, messy from where she's taken it out of her braids, stealing a look at the man.

"My apologies, Miss Scully," Mr. Mulder offers, getting to his feet. "I didn't mean to intrude… I only wanted to help, if I could."

"It's not an intrusion," Dana says, but she is still wary. "I have been trying to teach her, but I often cannot find the time, and she's so desperate to learn. She's still too young for school yet." And privately, Dana worries about what Emily will go through when she enters school, considering the anger New Yorkers have for immigrants. There is a Catholic school she's looking at, simply because it seems like the best option, but it still is too easy to worry.

"Mama," Emily whispers, tugging her skirt again as if she finds her embarrassing.

Mr. Mulder smiles a bit. "Your daughter is very intelligent. She should have no trouble catching up."

"I'm six years old," Emily informs Mr. Mulder, her back automatically straightening as if to look older. "In a year's time, Mama says she can put me in school."

"I'm sure you're very excited," Mr. Mulder says, without even a hint of indulgence in his voice. Emily nods, a little shyly. Mr. Mulder seems to be thinking a bit on the subject, but he speaks soon after. "Perhaps if your mother permits it," he says, speaking as much to Dana as to Emily, "I could tutor you in my spare time. Teach you your letters and give you a head start on reading."

Emily's eyes light up, shyness forgotten, and she tugs pleadingly on Dana's skirt. "That would be wonderful!" she breathes. "Please, Mama, can't I do it?"

"I don't know, Em… I wouldn't want to impose on Mr. Mulder's time." The man certainly seems smart enough to educate her daughter, but it seems too large a favor to ask of a complete stranger. It is also worth noting that she doesn't know the man very well outside of polite conversations in the hallway. She offers Mr. Mulder an apologetic smile.

"It's not an imposition at all," he says. "I would be glad to do it."

Dana bites her lower lip, her hand on her daughter's boney shoulder. "I-I could not afford to pay you anything," she says softly, although that may be obvious. None of them are wealthy—that is why they live here. But she may be a step down from the rest, staying in the corner of a friend's apartment with a screen instead of a wall, using her meager earnings to buy unsubstantial meals and pay a portion of the rent. If she had the money, she would get Emily and herself their own place, but she's got something of a disadvantage in that area. There isn't much she can do to rectify it.

Mr. Mulder shakes his head immediately. "No money is required," he says, his voice full of sincerity. "I would be glad to do it as a favor."

"I could not ask that of you…" she tries, but he halts her protests quickly. "Do not worry about it," he says. "When I was younger, my little sister was not allowed to go to school as I was, and she wanted to learn as badly as Emily. I tried to teach her, but I wasn't very good at it." He offers a rueful little smile. "I would be glad to be able to give someone else the opportunity where I couldn't give it to her."

Emily tugs at her skirt again and whispers, "Please."

Dana chews her lower lip again and sighs. "If you are absolutely sure it would not be a problem, Mr. Mulder," she says. "I know Emily would appreciate that very much."

Overjoyed, Emily bounces up and down on her toes with excitement. Mr. Mulder smiles at the both of them widely. "I can assure you it won't be a problem, Miss Scully," he tells her. "It will be my pleasure."

---

They practice reading each night, at least for a little while. Even when Dana is so tired she can scarcely keep her eyes open, they spend a few minutes going over Mr. Mulder's lessons, if nothing else. Emily has always been a fast learner, and within a couple of months, she is able to stumble through a page or two of Moby-Dick. Dana is incredibly proud. She can remember her own lessons in reading and other forms of education: her father had taught her often when she was younger, alongside Billy and Melissa, but the lessons had more or less stopped at a certain point. Past that, she had more or less taught herself with books of her father's, watching Bill and her father as they worked, more books still from Daniel's vast library. She never wanted that lapse in education for her daughter; it may be inevitable at some point, but she'll do what she can to prevent it.

Emily seems to adore Mr. Mulder as much as she does the lessons. "He is funny, Mama," she tells her in the second week, after she's retrieved her and thanked Mr. Mulder profusely. "And kind, just like John is. Much kinder than the other men in the building. Luke says he's the best schoolteacher he's ever had, and he's very smart and fair to the other children."

"He sounds very nice," says Dana, swinging their hands between them.

"He is." She looks up at her with Missy's eyes. "Was Papa like that?" she asks.

Her voice is so high and innocent, it makes Dana want to cry. No, she thinks, biting her lower lip. She says out loud, "I-I could not say, Em. I don't know Mr. Mulder well enough to make a comparison between him and your father."

Emily nods, her face serious. She looks down at her shoes, almost self-consciously. "I would like to believe that Papa was like Mr. Mulder," she says softly, and Dana squeezes her daughter's hand tightly. "I-I imagine him reading to me some nights, and helping me read. Y-you could take turns. And he could buy me pretty things, perhaps, and teach me all that he knows, like John does for Luke. Do you think he would have, Mama?"

"I know he would have," says Dana. It may be a bit of a lie, but that hardly seems to matter as much as her daughter's happiness.

---

Mulder had done it, originally, because Emily Scully reminded her of his sister. He'd seen her as often as the other children in the apartment building, sometimes hovering after Luke Doggett the way that Samantha had followed him. But more often, he'd seen her by herself, playing alone on the front steps with a ragged doll in hand, or trying desperately to read, hunched over a ragged old reader and struggling out loud to sound out words, dress muddy, pigtails unraveling. And he had thought of Samantha, sneaking reading lessons in the back of their immaculate library, trying to climb up a tree and ripping a hole in her stockings. It had been enough to cause him to offer up free tutoring, on an impulse, remembering his sister and how frustrated she used to get whenever he would leave for school and she would have to stay home. He hadn't been lying about that.

But a part of it was because of his admiration for her mother, Miss Dana Scully, who he'd seen in the halls often beforehand. She is beautiful, and intelligent, and there is something about her that simply draws Mulder to her, in a way he cannot explain. He is sure it won't go anywhere past friendship—Emily has reported that her father died only a few years before, on their trip over from Ireland, and Mulder himself has never particularly expected to be married—but he still enjoys any opportunity to spend time in her company. Particularly the talks they have when she drops by to retrieve Emily after shifts at the factory; they often last long, while they discuss books or plays or scientific theories, anything of the sort. Sometimes, he will ask Emily and Miss Scully to stay and share in his supper, sparse as it is; other times, Miss Scully will invite him to share leftovers of John Doggett's, or whatever cooking she has done herself. Sometimes, he fears he is bothering her, but other times, it seems as if she might like him a bit, too. He cannot tell for sure.

He tells himself it does not matter. He is here mostly to save money, so that he can travel. He hears there is opportunity in the west, but he would be fooling himself if he cited that as the reason. It does not matter to him where he ends up; all that matters is that he finds his sister and brings her home, after all of these years.

But still, he enjoys tutoring Emily. She's a bright young girl, a quick learner, and sweet. He does not know anything of her father aside from his death, but she still undeniably resembles her mother in every way he can see. He teaches her a bit of mathematics after she's gained some talent in reading and writing, and she enjoys that immensely. She has a load of questions for him every time she sees him: about stars, about history, about how things work and why they happen and where places are. Sometimes, Miss Scully will answer her before he can even open his mouth, blushing a little after and looking at him as if to see if he minds. He never does.

---

She shows up at his door after midnight, her face white, shaking. Emily at her side, curled into her with a blanket wrapped around her shoulder, her face hidden in Miss Scully's skirt, crying softly. For a second, Mulder doesn't know what to do, what to say. "Miss Scully, is… is everything okay?" he stammers, clutching his door in one hand. He sees a sudden splotch of red on her dress, alarming and bright. "Are you hurt?" he stammers.

She's shaking her head. "No, no, Mr. Mulder, it's not that, it's just…" She swallows hard, her eyes wide and helpless. "I-I need you to take care of Emily. I need to leave her here. Please."

Emily seems to clutch Miss Scully's skirt harder at that, shaking her head and crying more frantically. She mumbles something that sounds a bit like, "Don't leave me, Mama, don't leave me."

Mulder takes a sharp breath and opens the door wider. "Come in, come in," he says, and Miss Scully does, stroking Emily's mussed hair with quivering fingers. "W-what has happened, Miss Scully? Perhaps I can help."

Miss Scully clenches her chin and shakes her head, her face turned down towards her daughter. "I-I cannot… I do not have time for this, Mr. Mulder. I… Please. Please, Mr. Mulder, I have to leave, they will be coming for me."

"Who?" On an impulse, he reaches out and takes her free hand. It is cold and soft, and as he draws it closer, he sees the same glimpses of red, red crescents under her fingernails. "Who is it, Miss Scully? Who is coming for you?"

Emily's sobs are heart wrenching, even muffled by Miss Scully's skirt. Miss Scully looks to be on the verge of tears herself. She does not pull her hand away. "The… the police," she whispers.

"The police?" Mulder's mind tightens in fear as he remembers something suddenly, something he has often forgotten: the Irish are not well liked here. He wonders if these prejudices have somehow found the Scullys. "What has happened?"

Miss Scully bites her lower lip before lifting her chin so that her clear, blue eyes meet his. "There… there was a fight at a bar," she says tentatively. "John's son was involved, and so he intervened, and was injured. They followed him home. I… intervened, and I… harmed a man in an attempt to protect the Doggetts and my daughter." Her chin quivers once, steadies. She presses a hand over her daughter's head, spreading her fingers over her scalp. "He's dead," she whispers. "And he… he was police. So they'll be coming for me, to arrest me, and I… I will not find mercy here. I have learned that much."

His mind racing, he stammers, "But that… that is not murder, Miss Scully… that is self defense. A-any jury would see that."

She laughs bitterly. "But who can prove it? Emily did not see, and Barbara and John had already slipped down the fire escape. The only witnesses are the men who would have me arrested. And I will be convicted. Americans do not have any sympathy for women of my background." She swallows again, her pale white throat, a bruise blooming underneath her jaw. The sight of it makes Mulder furious. He is still clutching her limp hand. "S-so I am begging you, please take my daughter," she whispers. "She adores you. Take her, a-and take the money I have saved, and you can send her west, to my brother's house… I have to go. If they catch me, I can't let them get her. And if I escape…"

"Please, Mama, please don't go," Emily whimpers, drawing back, her cheeks smeared her tears. "Don't leave me alone, Mama, please."

"I have to, sweetheart." Miss Scully leans down to kiss her daughter's hair. Mulder can see her tears falling, glistening in the candlelight. "I must. But you will be safe here…"

"I cannot do this," says Mulder, speaking abruptly, almost without thinking.

Miss Scully's eyes widen with horror, and she pulls back her hand as she looks up at him. "You… you will not help me?" she whispers furiously. "After everything, I-I thought you cared for my daughter… cared for me, as a friend…"

"N-no, Miss Scully, y-you misunderstand," he stammers, his eyes wide. "I will protect Emily, of course I will protect Emily, but I… I will not leave you to be arrested."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "You are foolish to offer this," she whispers. "If they catch me… you cannot hide me here, Mr. Mulder."

"I cannot," he agrees. "But I can get you out of the city. You and your daughter both." His mind is racing, full of ideas. "I-I have friends I trust, a house I could take you to tonight. And tomorrow, we-we could go to my mother's house, in Massachusetts, for the time being. The two of you could stay there until… until we figure out a way to get you to your brother's."

Miss Scully is quiet, her eyes wide. Emily, leaning into her mother, is looking between the two of them curiously, like she is hopeful that this will happen. "You will be safe," Mulder adds. "Both of you. I promise you that."

"I could not ask that of you, Mr. Mulder," Miss Scully whispers. "It is too much."

"It's not." Mulder thinks of the money, put aside to search for Samantha. Enough for three train tickets north at least, if not a little left over after to fund a trip to wherever Miss Scully's brother is. A part of him is reluctant to spend the money he has been saving for so long—part of him feels like he is abandoning his sister, his family—but the rest of him is remembering Samantha at seven, at eight, more caring and compassionate than anyone in his family. She rescued animals (kittens, baby birds, piglets from the barn), knitted things with their mother to send to the local orphanage, shared her food with the servants on occasion and stole food from the pantry for the family down the road who never had enough food. She would want him to help them; he can still picture her wide, teary eyes, her weepy voice prodding him to help them, help them, Fox. And he wants to. He looks at Dana Scully and her daughter, the best companions he's found in the past few months, and he knows immediately that he must help them. He has no choice.

"I have money," he says out loud. "I can get you out of the city. I can help you. Both of you."

"Please, Mama, you must come with us. We can't leave you all alone." Emily hugs her mother hard around the waist, sniffling loudly. "I need you, Mama, please."

Miss Scully looks to her daughter, and then back to Mulder. Her eyes are still wide with fear. She sighs a little, tensely, and whispers, "I'll need to pack some things. My savings…"

"If you tell me what you need, I'll go and get it. You should not have to go back there."

Miss Scully rattles off a list in a quivering voice: clothes for the both of them, a knife that her father gave her, her bundle of coins underneath the bed. Emily tugs on his sleeve and adds softly, "And my dolly, please. And the picture of my sister Maggie, and of Mama's family. There's two of them."

Mulder slips out of his apartment and into theirs and finds it all, bundling it into a ragged carpet bag. He grabs their coats, too, and the family Bible under the bed, and a pistol he finds in John Doggett's part of the apartment. He tucks the pistol into his waistband and goes back to his apartment, where he finds the girls sitting on his bed, Emily curled up asleep in her mother's lap. "There is no need to wake her," he says when he sees Miss Scully moving to do just that. "I can carry her. It may be easier if she is asleep."

She nods, taking the carpet bag from his hands. "I… I cannot begin to thank you, Mr. Mulder," she whispers, shifting Emily off of her lap and standing.

He's begun to gather his own things, shoving his feet into his boots, retrieving his own savings. He puts a few books he cannot bear to part with into his bag, and a drawing he's held onto for years now, a portrait his father commissioned of Samantha. Photography was not in fashion when he and his sister were growing up, and so this drawing is the only memory he has as to what she looked like. "There is no need for thanks."

"You've done too much for us," Miss Scully whispers. She's put on her coat, and Emily's coat, and now she is tying a piece of cloth over her head—he assumes, to hide her bright hair. Her voice, soft as it's been all night, sounds a little different, as if she's trying to sand off the edges of the accent, attempting to sound different. "I… will find a way someday to repay you."

"It is not at all necessary." He shoulders his bag, grabs his hat and pulls it onto his head, before leaning down and scooping up Emily. She is a bit tall to be carried, but much lighter than he expected, barely weighing anything in his arms. She stays asleep, her coat and the blanket hanging off of her lightly. He shifts her in his arms and turns back to Miss Scully. "Shall we go?"

Miss Scully nods, her fingers rushing to button her coat. She grabs her carpet bag, clutching it to her chest, and trails out of the apartment after him.

---

She was twenty-one the first time she was married, at the end of the famine that had plagued her teenage years. She remembered being frightened, if only a little bit. She'd met Daniel a few times beforehand, and though at the time he'd seemed kind and honorable, she found it bizarre that his young daughter was only seven years younger than her. Practically the right age enough to court her younger brother. She hadn't wanted it for herself, it was the last thing she'd wanted in a way, and yet she could not protest. She could feel her mother watching Melissa as she helped her to get ready, and knew she was thinking about the disappointment Melissa had given her by refusing to marry, even driving away potential suitors. Her sister was going to have the life she wanted, and Dana was going to take her place as the honorable daughter, the one who did what she was supposed to do and did not argue. She wasn't marrying Daniel Waterston for herself, but for her father, because it was what he wanted, and she could not stand to let him or her mother down. Her father walked her down the aisle, and she wore the veil her mother had worn when she'd gotten married, and she'd wished to be somewhere else.

Now here she is again, in front of an altar with a man, but her father is dead, and she hasn't seen her mother or sister in years, and her daughter sleeps in the room upstairs, and she is twenty-eight and grimy and dressed in a dress that is too large for her because her own dress has bloodstains on it. She does not feel like a bride. The only good difference, she thinks, is that she knows her husband-to-be better than she perhaps ever knew Daniel. She knows he is intelligent and kind, and willing to protect herself and her daughter. And no matter the reason for this impromptu, inconvenient marriage, she is glad for at least that.

Mr. Mulder is holding her hands, so gently in his, and he's not quite meeting her eyes, but she can still see kindness in his face. She doesn't quite have the courage to look at him, either, and so she looks down at her boots. Mr. Frohike, their witness, stands in the corner. The preacher, a friend of Mr. Frohike, stands before them without asking questions. He simply opens the Bible and says the words, all the right ones. Dana and Mr. Mulder say what they are meant to, too, and then it is done. They do not kiss, not even chastely. There is no music or flowers or white dresses. Dana could not care less.

Just before the ceremony, Mr. Mulder leaned down to whisper in her ear, saying, "I promise you I will be a gentleman, Miss Scully. This marriage is for the safety of you and your daughter. It doesn’t have to mean a thing."

She blushed immediately, heat rising on her cheeks, and looked to the ground. "I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Mulder," she had said softly. "And you need not worry. I trust you."

When she looked back at him, he was smiling. "Perhaps we should do away with the formalities, Miss Scully."

"Perhaps," she had agreed, a bit amused. "I won't be a Miss anymore, after all." She offered him a small smile back, still unbelieving that he was helping her so much, that he was willing to hide and marry a murderess. A man she barely knew. "Shall I call you Fox?" she asks.

Mr. Mulder had flinched, just a bit, and shook his head. "Perhaps… just Mulder, if you do not mind. I have never liked my first name, and most people I know call me Mulder."

It's unusual, but it's no more unusual than the rest of this situation. Dana smiles and nods. "Well, you may call me Dana or Scully, I suppose," she said lightly, unsure of why except that he has always called her Miss Scully, like she has always called him Mr. Mulder. "Whichever appeals to you."

"Which appeals to you more, Miss Scully?" he'd asked, teasing, and then the preacher had been ready, and now here they are.

Once, she had believed she would never get married again. Now, she is married, and she has no idea whether or not it counts.

Mr. Mulder—Mulder—keeps hold of her hand as they go back upstairs to Emily. It's the first time anyone has held her hand in years, and she is surprised by how nice it feels, his warm and callused fingers wrapped around hers. Daniel's hands had been cool, his touch unyielding, his voice the same faux-polite sound it always was as he talked to everyone but her. Mulder's hands are gentle, holding her hand carefully—not as if it is fragile and may break, but as if it is something precious, something he cares for. She knows this is not quite the case, it cannot be, but it is nice to pretend, for just a moment, that this is a true marriage, that she and Mulder love each other as a husband and wife should.

#i miss writing for this fandom sometimes... it and asoiaf are fun but this is so comfy #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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thelittlestcheshire · 4 years

Note

+ Hey Mom!

Dear Maman;

I don’t know why I keep writing you, perhaps it’s because in some ways - I feel like you’re the only one who’d understand everything; even if you’re not here to listen. Grand-maman keeps telling me just how similar you were at my age, for years I thought she was just confusing me with Effie, or Ella. A few lost marbles in her old age, but over Christmas, she actually gave me your journals. I suppose this isn’t the way you would have wanted me to learn about you, but they help. It gives me hope that, maybe, if you were still alive today, you’d actually be able to talk me through all of this. I suppose we Andrieux women are forged in fire, perhaps like that quote about the stars. Withering, dying, beautiful, brilliant. From all the stories, I can’t imagine arrière grand-mère’s tale is much different the rest of ours, I suppose I wish I knew her better when I was still able to.

I wish I could write to you to tell you about how wonderful things are going here, how the clouds have cleared and we’ve finally reached the end of the tunnel but I’m afraid that’s not quite the case yet. I keep having the nightmares, every night I wake up screaming. Reaching for you, trying to stop it - feeling almost as if your blood is back on my hands and I’ll never quite be able to clean it off of my skin. I feel like they’re actually getting worse, I’m sorry maman. I keep hearing you’d want me to move on, but I can’t. I let you down, I’ve probably let you down so many times over the years it’s not funny. With him, for following down the path you went down you’d never want me to follow down. I’m sorry I still can’t shake the feeling that it should have been me, that you should still be here.

Sometimes it feels like I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing; like I’m being torn in different directions all the time, and I thought coming back to school would make things easier but it’s even worse. All I want is to go home, but I don’t even know which home anymore. Manhattan, Paris, Luxor? Nothing feels right. I still feel like that poor little lambie, maman. “Birds and the butterflies, pecking out its eyes” and all. Sometimes, I think the sensation is getting worse. Perhaps it’s thanks to everything going on here with the circle.

I’ve been drinking again, Emmett has been too. Sometimes, after the nightmares, I still call him and he talks me down like when we were children. I don’t tell him about the circle, about what’s going on here, I can’t bring myself to hear the concern I’m certain you’re feeling as you watch from above. You’d be so disappointed in me, drinking, sleeping around, trying so desperately to keep father happy and failing every step of the way. I haven’t been going to Mass, I haven’t gone to confessional, I’ve been letting you down every step of the way. And yet, when I read your journals, I feel closer to you than ever before. You made so many mistakes, and yet, you became the best mother a girl could have ever asked for - we were so lucky you were ours, I just wish you never had to go.

I wish I could go back in time and change it, I wish I knew who pulled the trigger, I wish I could tell him how much I hope he burns for everything he did to you and our family. If we have answers, nobody will tell me, maybe it’s for my sake, maybe it’s for his, maybe it’s even for yours. You weren’t the type to wish ill on others, grand-papa says that’s the one trait I got from my father. I just hope you understand why I feel the way I do, that you don’t hate me for the anger, for the guilt, for the throbbing pain I feel sometimes when someone says your name.

I’m back in therapy again, I think you’d be happy about that - he’s pushing me, but it’s helping. I still refuse to do the homework he gives me, there’s no way I’m bringing mental health packets anywhere near these people, they’d eat me alive, but I think he’s starting to understand why a bit? Not that I’m telling him the truth either about the Circle shit, I told him something about a bitchy cheerleader named Barbara who likes to torture people and while I don’t think he’s completely buying it, he’s not pushing. Sorry for the language, I’m trying not to swear in this, I promise I remember how much you hated hearing those words.

In some better news, Logan’s doing better! At least, that’s what he keeps telling us. I’m scared, he lied the last time things were getting bad, and I’m not there to keep an eye on him. I’m not there to intervene and take care of him if he needs me to, I’m here. I keep reminding myself Jonah is right there, that the better twin has him and it’s going to be okay. That none of us are ever going to let him down again because we can’t afford to lose him, but I’m scared. I’m always scared lately, I really wish I was able to cut out my heart at this point. All of these emotions would go away, it’d no longer matter how much I think about everything going on as I stare at my ceiling late a night because it’d no longer hurt. I wish I could, but I can’t. Human biology hasn’t gotten there quite yet, I’m afraid. Let’s add that to the list of things I’d like to happen, probably after bionics - Mass Effect style.

Impossible wishes, but maybe you’d get a chuckle from them.

Jamie and I still can’t see eye to eye, it’s the same old argument. He slept with my boyfriend, he refuses to apologize, and he’s massive jerk every time I see him and I react. I think he knows it upsets father when I react, so he’s doing it to keep his spot as the favorite without competition. as if I’d want that spot. I’d just love it if father would actually show up next year for Christmas so I don’t have to give his presents to the secretary to deliver to his office, but that’s about it at this point. I’m sure things would be different if you were still here, I really miss you. I can’t believe it’s almost been ten years.

Otherwise, I know I mentioned Emmett is still my emotional support human, but did you see he’s going to propose to Camellia. Jamie’s throwing a fit, screaming everyone’s too young, but I know Cam - it’s going to be a long engagement anyway. I’m happy for them, I wish you had been able to meet her. You’d love her, she might be a model but I swear I’ve never seen anyone light up at the words “poisonous spider” the way she does. She’s so down to earth, I’m looking forward to meeting her father the next time he’s in the states. I’ve heard so much about the famous wildlife photographer, Pascal Lima, but meeting him? That’s going to be amazing. Jonah is doing well, he has a new girlfriend, he’s still photographing all the dogs he gets to pet and turning it into a scrapbook - I wish I was more like him sometimes. So full of life, so happy to be alive. I miss him a lot this time, but I suppose it’s okay. I have my own electric bright spot keeping my on my toes here.

I’ve written to you about Elliot before though, so I suppose in this exercise, you already know exactly who I’m on about. I wish you could meet him, Lucy, Ian, Adrian, Callie, and Sora, they’re some of the best friends a girl can have - you know? I’m used to this feeling, but sometimes, I wish I could actually have confirmation for this gut feeling - that you’d like my friends, that you’d be happy I found people who make me feel good about myself regardless of all the fucked up things that have happened. That leave me feeling like, that maybe, someday, if I put enough hard work in, maybe I could actually matter and be more than just a person who existed. Like I could actually go after my dreams and make it, if I wanted to. Anyway, let me cover the rest of what I want to discuss and wrap this up. I’m sure heaven has better things to do than reading a letter your daughter wrote.

I don’t know how guardian angels work if it’s actually a thing and what-not, but if it is - I need you to do me a massive favor. Please send someone to keep an eye on Effie and Ella. I’m really worried about them, they look up to me so much, and the last thing I want is for them to become fucked up like me. To become so disappointing their own father can’t even look at them without being reminded, that one, that one destroyed my family. I’ve noticed Effie counting calories, I’ve heard the puking she’s tried to hide in the bathroom. Logan and I are trying to nudge her towards help gently, I don’t know what will set her off, but I can’t watch another sibling go down the path of destruction and yet, I don’t know if my attempts to help will make things worse or keep her safe. And Ella, she’s already asking to go to the MAC counter, for leather pants and crop tops. She’s so young, I can still remember braiding her hair and watching Sesame Street during breakfast with her. She’s growing up so fast and I want to pull her back, hand her a doll, and say “no, you need to enjoy this before it’s too late; before you spend your nights worrying about children at home and ‘that test was an A-, how could you let everyone down with an A-, you’re a worthless, disgusting person for being less than perfect.’”

Before you turn out like your big sister.

Maman, did you feel this way with Tatie Adeline? Were you this scared, looking at your decisions and praying that she wouldn’t make your mistakes, that she’d be better? I feel like I failed the girls, that I failed you, and I don’t know how to fix any of this. I’m trying my best, but maman, please, if it’s possible, help me keep her from making my mistakes. From feeling like alcohol is the only thing that’ll keep her together once everything feels like it’s about to shatter on the floor around her, from getting testing for STDs at least once a month because she thinks flings are better than heartbreak, from believing - even for a second, she’s not worth more than every single star in the sky or that I don’t love her and Effie with every fiber of my being. Help me do a better job of filling your shoes so I do better by them than I did for myself.

I’m sorry I’m writing about my problems again, I promise it’s not all bad here though. Remember what I said about my friends? Lucy and I might vacation this summer if things go to plan, I think I’m going to try to drag Sora to a few baseball games this year, and Elliot genuinely makes me feel like music - it’s strange to think about sometimes. I’d say don’t ask, but, it’s not like you could if you wanted to. My boys are a pretty good pick me up, Ian and Adrian - of course, even with everything going on in all our lives. I’m okay, really - I’m doing better, it’s really great here. So please don’t do that thing with your nose, if that’s something you’re able to do up there. Can’t say I really know for sure what the deal is, but I hope you’re okay.

I love you, maman. I’ll write to you again soon.

Love always,

#//so this is long and I'm emotional #//ask me to tag if I forgot any tws #murder tw #death tw #blood tw #violence tw #drugs tw #Anonymous #alcohol tw #alcohol mention tw #vomiting tw #vomit mention tw #eating disorder tw #answered #all of my heroes died all alone ( musings )#musings ( elswood family )

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bluboothalassophile · 7 years

Note

I wanted to know if you could write a one shot where the batfam and maybe the titans walk in on Raven and Jason after a they have a very hot and heavy sex session. Awkwardness and certain people saying they knew it or whatever. Hope you write you it. Thanks in advance.

Hello,

Sorry for the delay in response, I’ve been a bit too busy to write. But I hope you enjoy! =)

In the Closet…

Jason could remember why he hatedthe Wayne family, like truly despised them, and he really hated this ‘ProdigalSon Has Returned!’ spin they were giving him as he was now standing at a Wayne Galatrying to think of a way out of this hellish existence. Particularly one whichhad him dragging his girl out of here with him.

Since his ‘return’ and theannouncement that he was in a ‘steady’ relationship, the world had lapped up RachelRoth’s existence, which had greatly annoyed him. Greatly annoyed.

Raven was Raven, she was not asocial light, and she was not a spotlight lover. However, that dress on her wasdriving him nuts. Midnight blue, exposing her back, it clung to her every curvein such away that he could see everything and nothing; and do not get himstarted on how she looked with those rubies around her neck. Raven lookedclassic, she looked gorgeous, and he swore to God if he did not fuck her brainsout soon he was going to go insane. The woman was distracting, especially whenshe dressed the part, and he fucking loved it. Just not right now when he wastrying to figure out a way out of this hell.

Raven walked up to him, her fullred lips curling back as she sipped her drink, a scotch, he noted, before shewas standing there before him.

“You know you’re projecting,” sheinformed him monotonously.

“I’m well aware,” he assured hisgirlfriend, her dark hair was pulled up, and he really wanted to tear it down.Raven was the sort of girl who should have a simple braid, or a ponytail or amessy bun, not something fancy; and he said that with love as this was his girland she’d been driving him insane for years.

“Well, are you going to stop?”Raven asked.

“I don’t think so,” he grinned atthe empath as he trailed his fingers lightly over her ivory skin. “I prefer thegray.”

“Humans find it unsettling,” shereminded him.

“I don’t see the big fuss, and I missthe Gem,” he said softly. Fuck she was beautiful, and so damn appealing, hewanted to drag her off somewhere… The idea had his lips curling slyly as heassessed her carefully, oh, he was going to enjoy this, thoroughly. Perhaps onegood fucking thing could come from this Gala!

“You’re projecting,” she said, hervoice quivering from it’s normal monotone.

“Is it working?” He asked bemusedby his normally indifferent companion biting her red lip as she stood verystill, her dark eyes assessing him.

“Maybe a little,” she said as sheknocked her drink back.

“Then how about a little game,demon,” he mused as he traced the gems at her neck and pulled her close.

“What kind of game?”

“The sneaky kind,” he promised.

“Sounds interesting,” she purred,and fuck did he want to kiss her. But he wouldn’t.

“Let’s see how far Ican go and you can go without projecting,” he said as he wrapped his armaround her waist and steered her to the safest hide out.

Turned out to be the coat closet ashe shoved her up against it, she dragged him down for a heated kiss as hehooked her leg around his hips.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Dick wondered how it was he hadlost his brother and Raven as he looked through the party goers for them. Seriously!They were in a long-standing relationship! It wasn’t like they would run offlike horny teenagers! Not even Dick and Barbara had done that! Dick growled infrustration as he sought out Raven’s self-proclaimed brother for an idea ofwhere Raven and Jason would have disappeared to, seeing as how neither of themwere particularly social creatures.

“Hey Vic,” Dick said walking up tothe larger man’s side, Victor was wearing an image inducer tonight as he smiledand talked up a pretty girl.

“Hey Richard!” Victor grinnedclapping his shoulder.

“Have you seen your sister tonight?”Dick asked as he managed to get Victor away from the pretty girl.

“No, she was with Jay though,”Victor shrugged.

“That’s not helping as Jason’s alsomissing,” Dick sighed. “Again,” he added for good measure.

“Well I’m not looking for them,”Victor blurted out.

“Why not!? She’s your sister!”

“Because he’s probably screwing herbrains out and unlike you that’s not an image I un-see any time soon! She’s mybaby sister, man!” Victor snapped.

“Please, they’ve been dating what,six years now, I doubt they still go at it that often,” Dick rolled his eyes.

“Oh, trust me, they still go at it,”Victor rolled his eyes. “And if you’re looking for them, when they’re missingas a pair, I’m not looking for them with you, I still want to kill him for thelast time I caught them.”

“I doubt it, they probably snuckoff to the library,” Dick rolled his eyes. Raven and Jason and their unitedlove of books; he was pretty sure that’s what kept them together.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Raven was nothing but a very happy,boneless, puddle of goo as she leaned propped up against Jason against thewall, her skirt pooling around her waist, as both she and Jason just breathed.Raven had barely kept her empathy in check to prevent herself from projecting;though she was pretty sure she’d shattered Jason’s psyche because she’dreflected most of it into him.

“Fuck,” he muttered in her neck.

“Fuck,” she agreed as she smiledfinally Jason released her, Raven wasn’t sure her legs would hold her but sheremained upright.

“I’m keeping these,” he smirked ashe tucked the black lace panties she’d worn into his pocket. After he hadstraightened his appearance a bit. His hair was still wild from her fingers, shereached to smooth it then.

“Fine but,” she started, the doorwas pulled open and both their heads snapped to it as Jason pulled her intohim.

“Jason!” Tim’s voice had herburying her head into Jason’s chest with a groan. FUCK! She was never goingto be able to look at her captain with a straight face again! “Raven!? What areyou in the closet?”

“What do you think we’re doing in closet!?”Jason snapped, he took her hand as he pulled her along. Raven wanted theshadows to open up and swallow her now, she wanted to disappear off the face ofthe planet! Now would be a really good time for the world to come into a worldcrisis she could be called away for; or her job could call her! She liked thatthought too!

“Jason, where were you hiding?”Bruce appeared.

“I’m going to go,” she awkwardlystarted.

“Is that a hickey?” Duke asked.

“Damnit Jason!” she growled turningon him, he was feigning innocence poorly then.

“Were you two just…?” Stephanie appeared.

“Victor!” Raven shouted as shesqueezed through the Bats and ran for the safety and sanctuary of her bigbrother and looped her arm with his as she dropped her hair and shook it out soit fell over her neck.

“You got caught again,” Victorsnickered.

Raven really wanted to die rightnow.

#bluboothalassophile #fanfic #one shot #raven #jason todd #redrae #raex #calm in the storm

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hineini · 7 years

Text

Aruchah Cherut

Acknowledgements

Creating this haggadah would have been impossible if it hadn’t been for many fantastic resources. They include the following:

http://colours.mahost.org/events/haggadah.pdf

http://www.chatrh.org/haggadah/index2.htm

http://www.davka.org/what/haggadah/haggadah&liberation.html

http://www.gatherthepeople.org/Downloads/HAGGADAH_5767.pdf

http://www.hobokensynagogue.org/docs/haggadah.pdf

http://www.hrc.org/documents/Stonewall_Seder_Hagaddah.pdf

http://www.huc.edu/ijso/special/08/JQ-Haggadah.pdf

http://www.miriamscup.com/

http://wwww.ritualwell.org

http://scheinerman.net/judaism/pesach/haggadah.pdf

http://www.vbs.org/religious/haggadah/VBS-haggadah.pdf

http://velveteenrabbi.com/VRHaggadah.pdf

http://velveteenrabbi.com/2006-Haggadah.pdf

https://velveteenrabbi.files.wordpress.com/2015/02/vrhaggadah6.pdf

A Night of Questions: A Pesach Haggadah

Barbara Holender’s poem (Miriam’s Well)

Hannah Sennesh’s poem (blessed be the match)

The Open Door: A Pesach Haggadah

The Torah: A Women’s Commentary

http://www.haggadot.com

KABBALAT PANIM

Leader: Long ago at this season, our people set out on a journey. On an evening such as this, Israel went from degradation to joy. We give thanks for the liberation of days gone by and we pray for all who remain bound. Eternal God, may all who hunger come to rejoice in a new Pesach. Let all the human family sit at Your table, drink the juice of deliverance and eat the bread of freedom:

All: Freedom from bondage and freedom from oppression

Freedom from hunger and freedom from want

Freedom from hatred and freedom from fear

Freedom to think and freedom to speak

Freedom to teach and freedom to learn

Freedom to love and freedom to share

Freedom to hope and freedom to rejoice

Soon, in our lifetime. Amen.

Reader: We welcome the festival of Pesach as darkness descends. As we kindle these lights, we remember that our ancestors discovered freedom in the midst of that dark, final evening in Egypt. Let the candles we now light be a reflection of the light that shines within each one of us and let that light radiate throughout our home. We praise the Source of Light that keeps the hope of freedom alive amidst the darkness of oppression.

♫ Oh hear my prayer I sing to You. Be gracious to the ones I love, And bless them with goodness, and mercy and peace. Oh hear my prayer to You.

Let us light these lights And see a path to You, And let us say: Amen. ♫

Light the candles and read poem:

Reader: Blessed is the match, consumed in kindling flame.

Blessed is the flame that burns in the heart’s secret places.

Blessed is the heart that knows, for honour’s sake, to stop its beating.

Blessed is the match, consumed in kindling flame.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel {Shabbat v’shel} Yom Tov.)

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, shehecheyanu, v’kiyamanu, v’higianu, laz’manhazeh.)

Leader: May the light of the candles we kindle together tonight bring radiance to all who still live in darkness. May this season, marking the deliverance of our people from Pharaoh, rouse us against anyone who keeps others in servitude. In gratitude for the freedom we enjoy, may we strive to bring about our own liberation and the liberation of all people everywhere. Lighting these candles, we create the sacred space of the Festival of Freedom; we sanctify the coming-together of our community.

♫ (Hinei mah tov ooma nayeem Shevet acheem gam yachad.) ♫

KOS MIRYAM

Leader: According to the Midrash, a well of water accompanied the Israelites during their journey through the desert. It followed them in honour of Miriam, Moses’ sister, who watched over her brother as he floated down the Nile. She later joined with him to lead the people across the sea. We recall that sacred water as we place Miriam’s cup on our Seder table.

Fill Miriam’s Cup with water.

Reader: In every generation we experience both oppression and liberation. In our wanderings, both as a religious people and as individuals, Miriam’s well is with us as a sustaining presence, enabling us to thrive. Her well reminds us that our journey has direction and destination-to a place where freedom is proclaimed for all of humankind.

Leader: Due to the merits of Miriam, a mysterious well, created on the eve of the first Sabbath, accompanied the children of Israel in the desert.

It followed her everywhere like a lover, easing us to rest, springing from hidden places in our wanderings. Always, we were thirsty. Angered by our wailing, she'd stamp her feet. Even from the pools of her heel-prints we drank.

Once in anguish she beat the rocks with her bare hands again and again, weeping.

Water gushed, cleansing her blood, soaking her hair, her robe.

She cupped her hands, rinsed her mouth, spat; she splashed, she played. Laughing, we filled our bellies. She was the one we followed, who knew each of us by name. Healing rose from her touch as drink from the deep, as song from her throat. She was the well. In our hearts we called her not Miriam, bitter sea, but Mayim, water.

KADEISH

Pour the first cup.

Leader: Our people suffered under slavery and God promised to deliver us. We raise the first cup and repeat God’s promise to our ancestors and to us:

I will bring you out from the burdens of the Egyptians.

All: This is the promise of awareness. When we are numb to the pain of bondage we do not know that we are enslaved. When we acknowledge and address that pain we become God’s partners in liberation.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, boray p’ri hagafen.)

All drink.

URCHATZ

Leader: We begin our story with the first stirrings of freedom. How was the desire for freedom initially aroused? Shifra and Puah resisted Pharaoh’s decree to drown every Israelite boy in the Nile and Miriam watched over her brother Moses to ensure his safety. In the face of death they advocated life.

In the birth waters and the Nile, these extraordinary women saw life and freedom. Like the coming of spring, they believed in the inevitability of freedom and began awakening their people. The waters of freedom open and close our story, taking us from the Nile to Sea of Reeds.

Reader: From grape juice we return to water. However, it is the water of the Nile. Pharaoh’s daughter immerses herself. Deep below the gentle current she hears faint, persistent crying. She emerges from the water and wipes away the droplets. It is then that she spots a basket. She is not alone seeking renewal from the water. Fear and context fade away. She reaches out to Moses and cradles him in her arms. If she had not reached out, the story we’re sharing would not have started. May the water we offer each other bring us closer to their embrace.

Leader: In Hebrew, urchatz means “washing” or “cleansing.” In Aramaic, sister language to Hebrew, urchatz means “trusting.” As we wash each others’ hands, let us rejoice in this act of trust and reflect on the sources of hope and trust we want to bring into the world for ourselves and each other.

Look to your right and wash that person’s hands as the water circulates around the table.

KARPAS

Reader: Long before the struggle upward begins, there is tremor in the seed. Self-protection cracks. Roots reach down and grab hold. The seed swells and tender shoots push up toward light. This is karpas: spring awakening growth. A force so tough it can break stone.

Leader: Karpas represents spring, new growth, rebirth and the beginning of new life. We taste all the potential in nature and humankind as we eat it. Tonight we celebrate our growth, the flowering of our spirits and voices.

Reader: We do not taste the vegetable alone. We dip it in salt water, recalling the tears our ancestors shed during their long years in slavery. We mix bitterness with sweetness, slavery with freedom, past with future. We live with the contrasts because we realize that no moment exists without a multitude of combinations-sorrow and joy, pain and comfort, despair and hope.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, boray p’ri haadamah.)

Take the parsley, dip it into the salt water and eat it.

YACHATZ

Leader: We break the matzah as we broke the chains of slavery and as we break chains which bind us today. We will no more be fooled by movements which free only some of us, in which our so-called “freedom” rests on the enslavement or embitterment of others.

Break middle matzah and hide half; put the remaining section between the two whole pieces.

Reader: Some do not get the chance to rise like golden loaves of challah, filled with sweet raisins and crowned with shiny braids. Rushed, neglected, not kneaded by caring hands, we grow up fearing that any touch might cause a break. There are some ingredients we never receive. Let us bless our cracked surfaces and sharp edges this evening, unafraid to see our brittleness and brave enough to see our beauty. Striving toward wholeness, let us piece together the parts of ourselves we have found and all that remains hidden.

MAGGID

HALACHMA ANYA

Lift matzah and recite:

Leader: This is matzah, the bread of affliction and oppression. Let all people who hunger to express their nature and strength, all people who seek meaning and a place in tradition, come and join our celebration. Let all who are hungry come and share our meal this evening. Today we are here seeking a path toward freedom and dignity. May we live in a world of wholeness and freedom in a year, part of a larger community which strengthens and sustains everyone.

Replace matzah.

MAH NISHTANAH

Pour the second cup.

Leader: Each Pesach, the traditional four questions remain exactly the same. Why do we always ask them? As we grow and change, our questions take on new meanings and the answers to them differ. As we grow and change, we understand that there is not a single right response. As we grow and change, other people will start to ask them.

Reader: To ask questions is to acknowledge that we do not live in isolation, that we need each other. To ask questions is to signal our desire to grow. We take the first steps toward greater knowledge and learning through admitting we do not know. To ask questions signifies our freedom.

Reader: How is this evening different from all others?

On all other evenings we eat chameitz and matzah. Why only matzah on this evening?

On all other evenings we eat all vegetables. Why maror on this evening?

On all other evenings we don’t dip even once. Why do we dip twice on this evening?

On all other evenings we eat either sitting upright or reclining. Why do we all recline on this evening?

(Mah nishtanah halailah hazeh mikol halaylot?

Shebachol halaylot anu ochleen chamaytz u’matzah, halailah hazeh kulo matzah.

Shebachol halaylot anu ochleen sh’ahr y’rakot, halailah hazeh maror.

Shebachol halaylot ayn anu matbeeleen afeelu pa’am achat, halailah hazeh sh’tay f’ameem.

Shebachol halaylot anu och’leen beyn yoshveen u’vayn m’subeen, halailah hazeh kulanu m’subeen.)

Leader: In addition to the Four Questions, tonight we ask ourselves a fifth. We are commanded to celebrate as if each one of us had been personally liberated from Egypt. How have you been liberated from bondage in the last twelve months?

Anyone who wants to may share a story as we circulate through the table.

AVADIM HAYINU

Reader: Approximately 4000 years ago, our people were slaves in Egypt. If God had not brought us out of Egypt, we would remain enslaved there to this day. We retell this story to remind ourselves of the importance of human freedom. The story of the Exodus from Egypt reassures us that freedom is possible, deliverance can come, salvation is within our reach and the dream of redemption can become a reality.

Leader: Mitzrayim is not just a place on an ancient map, where a narrow strait blocks the route between two seas. Mitzrayim is a place in us where a narrow strait blocks the sea which is our soul from reaching the Sea which is its source.

Reader: Though we no longer labour under Pharaoh’s overseers, we may remain enslaved, though in subtler ways which are harder to eradicate. Do we enslave ourselves to our jobs? To our expectations? To the expectations of others? To our fears? Tonight we celebrate our liberation from Egypt-in Hebrew, Mitzrayim, literally “the narrow place”-, but narrow places exist in multiple ways. Let this holiday make us mindful of internal bondage, which keeps us enslaved despite our outward freedom.

ARBAAH VANIN

Reader: Torah speaks four times about children in connection with the Exodus story. According to rabbinic Midrash this is not simple repetition, but rather a depiction of four kinds of children: one who is wise, one who is rebellious, one who is simple and one who does not know how to ask.

Leader: However, we realize that no child is all wise, all rebellious, all simple or incapable of asking anything. At different times in our lives, we have been all of these children: one who is eager, one who is hostile, one who is passive and one who is bewildered.

Reader: We have asked the most intelligent of questions, we have challenged provocatively, we have simply wanted an answer and we have been so confused that we were unable to speak. We have been all these children: one who is aware, one who is alienated, one who is direct and one who is silent.

Leader: We also include a fifth child during our discussion this evening: a child of the Holocaust who did not survive to ask.

Reader: What does it mean to be a wise child? It means to be engaged in your community, to recognize the limit of your understanding, to be able to look for answers to that which you don’t know. At different times in our lives, we have been this child, like Miriam was-inquisitive, caring, eager to learn and understand, willing to ask for information we do not have, hopeful that an answer can be given.

Reader: What does it mean to be a rebellious child? It means to stand apart from the community, to feel alienated and alone, depending only on yourself, to have little trust in the people around you to help you or answer your questions. At different times in our lives, we have been this child, like Tamar was-detached, suspicious and challenging.

Reader: What does it mean to be a simple child? It means to see only a single layer of meaning, to ask the most basic of questions, to be too innocent or impatient to grasp complicated questions. At different times in our lives, we have been this child, like Ruth was-simply curious and innocently unaware of the complexities around us.

Reader: What does it mean to be a silent child? It can be the child of the wicked child, two generations removed from the Jewish community and no longer even able to criticize, only standing mute. It might be a passive child who simply shows up or it may be a child whose spiritual life is based on faith rather than rational argument, the child who hears something deeper than words and can be silent to listen to the surrounding silence.

Leader: What does it mean to be unable to ask? It means to have seen the horror of the Shoah and be unable to communicate directly to other people about it. We ask, “Why did the Shoah happen?” on behalf of this child.

We can only follow the footsteps of Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, who could not bring himself to mention the Exodus during the evening until Ben Zoma explained it to him through the verse: “In order that you REMEMBER the day of your going out from Egypt, all the days of your life.” “The days of your life” indicates the daylight and the goodness of life. “All the days of your life” means even during the darkest evening, when we have lost our first-born child, we must remember the Exodus.

Reader: We answer that child’s question with silence. In silence we remember six million Jews and five million others, including Poles, Romas, Soviets, gay, gender-queer and differently-abled people, who were killed under the Nazi regime. Many of them were not buried and their graves were not marked. They were consumed in flame and their ashes were scattered but their spirits endure and we remember them.

Observe a minute of silence (including the Kaddish if you feel comfortable).

(Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’may raba b’alma di v’ra chirutay, v’yamlich malchutay b’chayaychon uv’yomaychon uv’chay d’chol beyt Yisrael, Ba’agala u’vizman kariv, v’imru, Amein. Y’hay sh’may raba m’varech l’olam ul’almay almaya.

Yitbarach v’yishtabach v’yitpa’ar v’yitromam v’yitnasay v’yit-hadar v’yitaleh

v’yit-halal, sh’may d’kudsha, b’rich Hu. L’ayla min kol birchata v’shirata, tush b’chata v’nechemata, da’amiran b’alma, vimru, Amein. Y’hay sh’lama raba min sh’maya, v’chayim aleinu v’al kol Yisrael, v’imru, Amein.)

V’HI SHEAMDAH

Leader: Sacred is the One keeping this accord: Although some stand against us, others stand with us in difficult times. In every generation, when some are blinded by hate, others build bridges of understanding. No matter the circumstances we are in, no matter how hard things seem, God will always be there to help us through.

NEITZI V’NILMAD

Reader: At the conclusion of Genesis, Joseph brings his family to Egypt. Over the following centuries, the descendants of Joseph's family become so numerous that when a new pharaoh comes to rule Egypt he fears what might happen if the Hebrews decide to rise against the Egyptians. He decides that the best way to avoid this situation is to enslave them.

Leader: Despite Pharaoh's attempt to subdue the Hebrews they continue to have many children. As their numbers grow, Pharaoh comes up with an additional plan: he will send soldiers to kill all newborn male babies who were born to Hebrew mothers. However, the Israelite midwives – Shifra and Puah – do not adhere to Pharaoh’s request since they revere God. When asked why the boys are surviving, they explain that “the Hebrew women are so hardy, they give birth before we arrive!” Pharaoh then orders his people to throw every male child born to an Israelite into the Nile River.

Reader: After giving birth to a son, his mother Yocheved, accompanied by his sister Miriam, puts him in a basket and set it afloat on the river. Their hope is that the basket will float to safety and whoever finds the baby will adopt him as their own. Miriam follows the basket as it floats down the river. Eventually it is discovered by none other than Pharaoh's daughter. She saves Moses and raises him as her own, so he is raised as a prince of Egypt.

Leader: When Moses grows up he kills an Egyptian guard when he sees him beating a Hebrew slave. Then Moses flees for his life, heading into the desert. In the desert he joins the family of Jethro, a Midian priest, by marrying Jethro's daughter, Zipporah and having children with her. He becomes a shepherd for Jethro's flock and one afternoon, while out tending the sheep, Moses meets God in the wilderness. The voice of God calls out to him from a burning bush and Moses answers: “Hineini!!”

Reader: God tells Moses that he has been chosen to liberate the Hebrews from slavery in Egypt. Moses is so humble, let alone intimidated to even contemplate such a radical notion due to his speaking difference, that he attempts to refuse God’s request, but God reassures Moses that he will have God’s help and that Aaron, his brother, will come with him, helping Moses relay his message despite his speaking difference. It is with this assurance that Moses goes to Pharaoh and demands, “Let my people go!”

Leader: Pharaoh refuses to give Moses’ people their freedom and as a result God sends ten plagues to Egypt. Each one frightens Pharaoh, prompting him to promise to give the slaves their freedom, but Pharaoh does not keep his word after each plague stops, despite warnings by Moses, prior to each plague, about the devastating effect it will exert on the Egyptian people. It is only after the last plague, the death of the firstborn of the Egyptians, including Pharaoh’s own son, that Pharaoh finally lets the Israelites go.

Reader: Fearful that Pharaoh will change his mind once more, our ancestors leave Egypt without waiting for their dough to rise into bread. They don’t leave alone; a mixed multitude goes with them, including Moses’ adopted mother, who becomes known as Batya, daughter of God, after the exodus to freedom occurs.

Leader: Pharaoh’s army follows us to the Sea of Reeds, where we witness Nachshon’s great act of faith. It is only after he goes as far as he can that God commands Moses to raise his rod, enabling the sea to split and let us through. We mourn, to this day, that Pharaoh’s army drowned. Our liberation is bittersweet because people died in our pursuit.

All: And so it is written that God brought us forth out of Egypt, with a mighty hand and with an outstretched arm and with great terror and with signs and with wonders.

OTOT UMOFTIN

Leader: We are about to recite the Ten Plagues. As we call out the words, we remove ten drops from our overflowing cups with our fingers. This dipping is not food into food. It is tactile and intimate, a momentary submersion into a Nile suddenly flowing red with blood.

We will not partake of our Seder feast until we have completed this ritual because our freedom was purchased with the suffering of others. Midrash tells us that while watching the Egyptians succumb to the ten plagues, the angels broke into songs of jubilation. God rebuked them, saying, “My creatures are dying and you sing praises?” Our joy in our liberation will always be tarnished by the torture Egyptian people endured.

Reader: God, who is like you? We understand fear, doubt, resentment and guilt. We believed we were leaving such emotions. How heavy a load can be carried out of Egypt? How many in that army were blameless? How many innocents will die for this freedom?

We attempt to drown out these questions with music and dancing. We think of the abuse, the children who were killed, all the times we hoped something like this might happen. We tell ourselves we have a right to rejoice. It would be easier to believe if the horses hadn’t had time to scream.

Remove a drop of juice for each plague.

(Dam. Tz’fardaya. Kinim. Arov. Dever. Sh’chin. Barad. Arbeh. Choshech. Makat B’chorot.)

Leader: Today, there are ten more plagues that affect all of humankind and prevent people from having total freedom. We remove juice from our glasses to acknowledge them and pray for their ending:

Stigma toward mental illness(es) and anyone who lives with their effect(s)

Consumerism

Animal abuse and exploitation

War

Abuse of the earth

Abusive working conditions

Oppression of women

Oppression of visible minorities

Stereotypes linked to religious difference

Difficulty accessing housing

Reader: May these modern issues disappear as people start living according to the Golden, if not Platinum, Rule.

♫ Mi shebayrach avotaynu M'kor habracha l'imotaynu. May the source of strength Who blessed the ones before us, Help us find the courage To make our lives a blessing

And let us say Amen. ♫

Reader: May all people seeking healing from the effect of any of these modern plagues have their prayers answered during the days to come.

♫ Mi shebayrach imoteinu

M’kor habrachah l’avotaynu.

Bless those in need of healing

with refuah shlaymah

The renewal of body,

The renewal of spirit,

And let us say Amen. ♫

DAYEINU

Leader: Dayeinu is the song of our gratitude. Once, a Jewish philosopher was asked about the opposite of hopelessness. He responded: Dayeinu; the ability to be grateful for everything we have received.

Reader: We now rejoice in the many blessings God gave us during this journey, ending each stanza with “Dayeinu” to acknowledge that even a single blessing would have been sufficient.

♫ (Ilu hotzi, hotzianu,hotzianu mimitzrayim, hotzianu mimitzrayim dayeinu.

Day, Dayeinu {3X} dayeinu dayeinu

Ilu natan, natan lanu, natan lanu et hashabbat, natan lanu et hashabbat dayeinu.

Day, Dayeinu {3X} dayeinu dayeinu

Ilu natan, natan lanu, natan lanu et hatorah, natan lanu et hatorah dayeinu.

Day, Dayeinu {3X} dayeinu dayeinu.) ♫

LO DAYEINU

Leader: From singing Dayeinu we learn to celebrate each landmark on our people's journey but we must never confuse these way-stations with the redemptive destination because there is so much more to accomplish if we are to completely repair the world.

Reader: Though we sing “it would have been enough”, we recognize that life goes on. New, often unanticipated, situations challenge us. Our way narrows frequently and we have to immerse ourselves in the struggle to reach the clear shore.

PESACH, MATHZAH, MAROR

Leader: Tradition directs us to have a shank bone on our Seder plates to remember the lamb’s blood our ancestors smeared on their doorposts to protect their children from the Angel of Death. Today is a bit different, as we follow an alternative tradition suggested by the Talmud. Our Seder plate has beets on it. They remind us of the blood when we cut them but they do not involve any life being sacrificed, serving as a reminder that all life is holy and all creatures deserve freedom to live.

Reader: God was revealed to our ancestors and they tasted redemption even before their dough had risen. Matzah is the bread of wandering, the bridge between our sojourn in the land of slavery and the land of freedom.

Leader: The Egyptians embittered our ancestors’ lives. Cruelty, violence and oppression plague every human society, darken our world, embitter our lives and challenge us to raise our voices for justice.

KOS SHEINI

Lift the cup and recite:

Leader: I will deliver you from servitude.

All: This is the promise of deliverance from servitude. Created in God’s image we need never to be subject to another’s cruel will. As God promises us deliverance, so must we ensure the freedom of every human being.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, boray p’ri hagafen.)

All drink.

RACHTZAH

Leader: We wash our hands once more, though much has changed since the Seder started. We have passed through the long evening of Egypt and we stand on the far side of the Sea of Reeds. Like our ancestors all those years ago, we sing MiChamocha to express our gratitude.

♫ (Michamocha, baelim Adonai, mikamocha nedar bakodesh. Norah tehilot, ohsayfeleh, norah tehilot, osayfeleh.

Malechutecha, rau venecha, bokay hayam leefnay MosheuMiriam. Zayli, anu veamru. Adonai yimloch, l’olam vaed.) ♫

Reader: We now wash our hands to celebrate our crossing the sea, our rebirth as a free people. We now recite a blessing, for our hands have the freedom to perform acts of holiness, including eating matzah, the symbol of liberation.

Leader: In this moment of celebration, may this water, symbolically drawn from Miriam’s well, cleanse us of all the wounds and pain of Egypt. As we remember the past, we are called to strive toward a healing future, helping others who remain enslaved navigate the path to freedom.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al n’tilat yadayim.)

Wash hands.

MOTZI/MATZAH

Reader: Why do we eat matzah? In order to remind ourselves that even before the dough of our ancestors could rise and become bread God was revealed to our people and freed them as it is written: “And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough they had taken out of Egypt, for it was not leavened, since they had been driven out of Egypt and they could not delay”.

Leader: Matzah reminds us that when the chance for liberation comes, we must seize it even if we do not feel ready-indeed, if we wait until we feel fully ready, we may never act at all.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, hamotzi lechem min haaretz.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al achlit matzah.)

All present take a piece of Matzah, salt it and eat it.

MAROR/CHAROSET

Reader: Why do we eat maror? To remind ourselves that the Egyptians embittered the lives of our ancestors as it is written: ruthlessly they embittered their lives with harsh labour at mortar, brick and field jobs.

Leader: Why do we eat charoset? Rabbi Jochannan said “To recall the clay”. Seasonings mixed with apples recall straw mixed with clay; so were we forced to make bricks for Pharaoh. Why from apples? Rabbi Levi said, “To recall the apple trees.” For just as apple trees bloom while it is winter, before any leaves have grown to protect the fruit, so our mothers in Egypt were willing to bear their children unprotected, hiding in the orchards and fields. When Pharaoh decreed the drowning of Hebrew boys, Jewish men thought to cease having children altogether, but their wives and daughters said, “Pharaoh wants to kill only the male children, but your actions will eliminate them all!” Their courage kept our nation alive.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al achlit maror.)

All present take romaine lettuce, dip it into the Charoset and eat it.

Reader: We have come from darkness to light, slavery to freedom, winter to spring and now bitterness to sweetness. Despite that journey, some darkness remains with the light. With our freedom, there are some who are enslaved. It remains winter for some and life remains bitter for many throughout our world.

Leader: Even in our own lives, we live within the tapestry of those contradictions. It is dark and it is light; we are trapped and we are liberated; we are cold and we are warm; we feel pain and joy, as we just experienced through combining maror and charoset, taking the bitter with the sweet and acknowledging the fullness of life, shaded by gradations of experience and a reflection of all possibilities rather than simply black or white.

KOREICH

Reader: We remember the days when the Temple stood and Hillel the sage combined the pesach, matzah and maror, eating them together to fulfill the biblical teaching “with matzah and bitter herbs they shall eat it”.

Leader: To the Sage Hillel, eating Matzah and Maror together was not a trivial matter. To him, slavery and freedom were merged in one historical event. The bread of poverty became bread of freedom and was tasted together with Maror, so that one should experience both the bitterness of slavery and the joy of freedom. In times of freedom, we remember the bitterness of slavery; in times of oppression, we keep alive the hope of freedom. It is due to this symbolism that Hillel’s practice of eating Matzah and Maror together has such an important message for us today.

All present eat sandwich of Matzah, Charoset and Maror.

BEITZAH

Reader: Why do we put a symbolic egg on the Seder plate? The egg is a symbol of springtime, fertility and the giving of life. It also tells us that the longer things are in hot water, the tougher they become. Such is the case in the “oppression cooker” of life.

TAPUZ

Reader: Why do we have an orange on the Seder plate? Dr. Susannah Heschel offered the orange as a symbol of all Jews’ fruitfulness, representing the contributions gay Jews make as active members in Jewish life, and to ‘spit out’ traditional Judaism’s homophobia and heterosexism after attending a Seder where a crust of bread was added to the Seder plate in response to a rebbetzin’s assertion that gay women had no place in Judaism.

Leader: Oranges also have many segments to represent that all people, no matter any difference they have, contribute toward creating the greater whole. They are thick-skinned, symbolizing the scars many people have, whether emotional, physical, or both of the above, because they are GLBT. Their thick skin makes them hard to peel, reminding us that freedom is gained in many small steps rather than coming all at once. However, once we have freedom it is, like the juice of the orange, sweet and gratifying.

ברוכה אתה יי אלוהינו רוח העולם, בורא פרי העץ.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach Haolam, boray p’ri haeitz)

Eat orange segment.

ZAIEET

Reader: Why is there an olive on the Seder plate? After the flood, Noach’s dove returned with an olive branch as a sign that the earth was habitable once more. Today ancient olive groves are destroyed by violence, making a powerful symbol of peace into a casualty of war.

Leader: We keep an olive on our Seder plate as an embodied prayer for peace in the Middle East and every place where war destroys lives and prevents others from enjoying the hopes and freedoms we celebrate this evening.

♫ (Oseh shalom bimromav, hu yaaseh shalom aleinu, v’al kol Israel, ve’imru amein) ♫

KARPAS SHENI

Leader: Some Seder feats start with a hard-boiled egg to represent the new life of springtime. As a vegan alternative, we are starting our feast with a second sprig of parsley according to the following anecdote:

Once, we dipped the parsley in salt water and it tasted unusual. My cousin Rachael and her sister Robin had traded the salt water for sugar water, believing that freedom should taste sweet. (recalled by Abby Cantor)

To remember this simple truth and honour the innocence of childhood, we start our meal with a second sprig of parsley, though now dipped in sugar water, to savour the sweetness of freedom.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, boray p’ri haadamah.)

Take the parsley, dip it into the sugar water and eat it.

SHULCHAN OREICH

Enjoy the meal!!

TZUFAN

Reader: Our meal is not complete until we distribute the dry crumbs of wandering and share the afikoman. With the taste of promise in our mouths we continue our journey.

All eat some matzah.

BAREICH

Pour the third cup.

Leader: Saying grace is an act of great importance. To be able to eat and drink is a possibility as extraordinary as crossing the Red Sea. We don’t recognize the miracle this represents because we have short memories and we-for now-live in a world that has plenty of everything. Those living in less fortunate nations recognize that satisfying one’s hunger is a marvel…the route which bread travels from the earth it grows in to the mouth that eats it is a perilous journey, hardly different than crossing the Red Sea.

Reader: Even if our were filled with song as the sea

Our tongues with rejoicing as the waves

Our lips with praise like the breadth of the horizon

Our eyes brilliant like the sun and the moon

Our arms outspread as eagles' wings

Our feet as swift as fawns’

It would not be enough to thank You, our God of eternity and eternities.

Leader: From Your abundance comes our food,

From Your delight our wine.

We’ve satisfied our hungers God,

As in Your great design.

With love and thanks we bless Your name

And praise You with our song.

May all on earth bless You, the One

To whom we all belong.

KOS SH’LISHI

Lift cup and recite:

Leader: I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great acts of judgement.

All: This is the promise of redemption. God’s arm extends to everyone; none is beyond God’s grasp. When we reach out to others redemption starts.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, boray p’ri hagafen.)

All drink.

SERIFAT HA’OMER (*if Seder occurs during second evening of holiday)

Reader: On this evening, we celebrate our freedom from slavery; in fifty days we will celebrate our acceptance of the Torah’s teachings. Counting the Omer reminds us that we are freed not only from, but also toward. Pesach and Shavuot are linked stages on our collective journey to mature, thinking, engaged Jewishness: we must have freedom in order to accept the joyful responsibility of connecting with God and healing the world.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu al serifat ha’omer.

Hayom yom echad la’omer.)

KOS MIRYAM, KOS ELIYAHU

Lift Miriam’s cup and recite:

Leader: Miriam is always present. She is here to provide healing, inspiration and wisdom. Her waters sustain us as we look toward the Messianic Age, flowing into wells around the world as Shabbat ends each Saturday evening.

Reader: A long journey awaits us if we want to have total freedom. Miriam calls us to work for-rather than wait for-that day. She sustains us with the most basic substance on earth-water that cleanses and heals. She lifts our hearts as she leads us once again in music.

♫And the women dancing with their timbrels, Followed Miriam as she sang her song, Sing a song to the One whom we've exalted, Miriam and the women danced and danced the whole evening.

And Miriam was a weaver of unique variety The tapestry she wove was one which sang our history. With every strand and every thread she crafted her delight! A woman touched with spirit, she dances toward the light.

(Chorus)

When Miriam stood on the shores and gazed across the sea The wonder of this miracle she soon came to believe. Whoever thought the sea might split with an outstretched hand And we would pass to freedom and march to the promised land?

(Chorus)

And Miriam the prophet took her timbrel in her hand, And all the women followed her just as she had planned, And Miriam raised her voice in song- She sang with praise and might- We've just lived through a miracle, we’re going to dance tonight!!

(Chorus) ♫

Leader: We now drink from Miriam’s cup, the nurturing waters of her well.

ברוכה אתה יי אלוהינו רוח העולם, שהכול נהיה בדברו.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam shehachol nihyeh bidvaro.)

All sip water of Miriam’s cup as it circulates around the table.

Leader: We traditionally call on Elijah because our texts tell us that he will herald the messianic age. Since redemption will only come when we all work together, we each contribute to Elijah's cup.

Pour a bit of your juice into Elijah’s cup as it circulates around the table.

Reader: Finally, we open the door to welcome Elijah and Miriam, cultivating that capacity in ourselves which allows us to welcome and befriend-within and without. As we recognize and remember our suffering, when we were strangers in the land of Egypt, our capacity for compassion and community building deepens and we symbolically welcome any stranger who might arrive.

We open our doors and our hearts to welcome visionaries and prophets, Elijah and Miriam, to our homes.

Open the door and rise as you can to welcome Elijah and Miriam.

♫ Eiliyahu hanavi, Eiliyahu hatishbi; Eiliyahu, (3X) hagiladi♫

♫ Miryam han’viah oz v’zimrah b’yadah. Miryam tirkod itanu l’hagdil zimrat olam♫

Reader: We remember and welcome Idit too. She cried out after witnessing the destruction of her enemies, turning into salt for shedding so many tears. She was once known simply as Lot’s wife and remembered for her act of disobedience, having turned out of compassion for life destroyed. Come, Idit, to our Seder and teach us deeds of loving-kindness.

Close the door.

HALLEL

Pour the fourth cup.

Leader: We have opened the door to the future. With words of praise set to music we celebrate the presence of the Holy One among us today and in the days to come.

כל הנשמה תהלל יה הללויה

♫ (Kol haneshema Tehallel Yah Halleluyah {3X}) ♫

הללויה שיר נשרה הבה

♫ (Havah nashirah, shir Halleluyah {3X})♫

הוֹדוּ לַיהוָה כִּי-טוֹב: כִּי לְעוֹלָם חַסְדּוֹ.

יֹאמַר-נָא יִשְׂרָאֵל: כִּי-טוֹב: כִּי לְעוֹלָם חַסְדּוֹ.

יֹאמְרוּ-נָא בֵית-אַהֲרֹן: כִּי-טוֹב: כִּי לְעוֹלָם חַסְדּוֹ.

♫ (Hodu l’Adonai, ki tov. Ki l’olam chasdo, ki l’olam chasdo

Yomarna Israel ki tov. Ki l’olam chasdo, ki l’olam chasdo

Yomruna veit Aaron ki tov, Ki l’olam chasdo, ki l’olam chasdo) ♫

כמלכנו אין כמושיענו אין כאדונינו אין כאלהינו אין

♫ (Ein kelohenu, ein kadonenu, ein kemalkenu, ein kemoshi’enu

Non komo muestro Dio, Non komo muestro Senyor,

Non komo muestro Rey, Non komo muestro Salvador.) ♫

כמושיענו מי כמלכנו מי כאדונינו מי כאלהינו מי

♫ (Mi cheloheinu, Mi chadoneinu, Mi chemalkeinu, Mi chemoshi’einu,

Kein komo muestro Dio, Kein komo muestro Senyor,

Kein komo muestro Rey,Kein komo muestro Salvador.) ♫

-----------------------------------------

למושיענו נודה למלכנו נודה לאדונינו נודה לאלהינו נודה

♫ (Nodeh leloheinu, Nodeh ladoneinu, Nodeh lemalkeinu, Nodeh lemoshi’einu,

Loaremos a muestro Dio, Loaremos a muestro Senyor,

Loaremos a muestro Rey, Loaremos a muestro Salvador.) ♫

-------------------------------------------------

מושיענו ברוך מלכנו ברוך אדונינו ברוך אלהינו ברוך

♫ (Baruch Elohenu, Baruch Adonenu, Baruch Malkenu, Baruch Moshi’einu Bendicho muestro Dio, Bendicho muestro Senyor,

Bendicho muestro Rey, Bendicho muestro Salvador. )♫

------------------------------------------------

מושיענו הוא אתה מלכנו הוא אתה אדונינו הוא אתה אלהינו הוא אתה

♫ (Atah hu Elohenu, Atah hu Adonenu, Atah hu Malkenu, Atah hu Moshi’einu.

Tu sos muestro Dio, Tu sos muestro Senyor.

Tu sos muestro Rey, Tu sos muestro Salvador.)♫

KOS RIVI

Lift cup and recite:

Leader: I will take you to be my people and I will be your God.

All: This is the promise of covenant. God has kept this promise for five thousand years, so may we keep our commitments to others, building connections of justice and integrity.

(Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Ruach haolam, boray p’ri hagafen.)

All drink.

NIRTZAH

Reader: It is traditional to conclude a Seder with L’shanah habaah b’Yerushalayim. It speaks to a feeling of exile which characterized the Jewish Diaspora for centuries, but now that the State of Israel exists, the call is different. What are the chances that we will all be in Jerusalem in a year? Wouldn’t we rather be together?

However, the meaning of the word Yerushalayim shows its name has a double meaning. Its root can be read as Ir Shalem (“City of Wholeness”) or Ir Shalom (“City of Peace”).

No matter where we are, or our political leanings, we can all slip into exile from the state of wholeness and unity which only connection with our Source can provide. No matter where we are in a year, may we be whole and at peace.

Leader: Our Seder is now complete, the ritual fulfilled. Tonight we passed through ancient doors and made our way toward freedom. Nourished by story and song we joined our ancestors in praise. Memory opened our hearts; hope was sweet on our tongues. May we enter these doors again in years to come.

All: May slavery give way to freedom.

May hate give way to love.

May ignorance give way to wisdom.

May despair give way to hope.

May everyone, everywhere, live in total freedom in a year!

#haggadah #seder #pesach #god #gay #genderqueer #heterosexism #glbt #vegan

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artificialqueens · 7 years

Text

It's all about Barbie - Chapter 1 (Trixya)- Djoodi

A/N: hey guys, it’s Djoodi here! I had this idea and thought it was really cute so I wrote it for you guys! Both of them are cis-girls, by the way. I don’t have any idea of how many chapters this will be, but let’s see!

Quick summary: Trixie is a single mom who once dreamed to be a star in New York. Katya just moved from Russia to her High School BFF’s apartment because things didn’t turn out the way she planned.

Once again, sorry for the mistakes I probably did >.< English is not my first language. Hope you guys enjoy it!

“But how did you tell her?” Violet said while Trixie painted her eyebrows “That you are lesbian.“

“Barbie?” the blonde girl asked “I mean, I never told her like ’Honey, I’m lesbian’. I think she knows, though. Remember when I met Pearl on Tinder and thought we could be something but we ended up just becoming best friends? I’m pretty sure she was aware of what was going on. Stop moving, goddammit, your brows will end up looking like third cousins."

"You’re not helping me, Mattel." the purpled haired girl sighed.

Trixie just rolled her eyes "Isn’t your sister, like, fourteen or something? I thought she had caught you and Pearl on the sofa the other day."

"Yeah, she just turned fourteen. And she didn’t caught us, she almost did. That’s why I want to tell her. I mean, I don’t want to hide from her anymore, you know? But I don’t know how to say it like ‘Hey, Jamie, Violet likes girls. Women. Vaginas.’ or something like that.” Violet grabbed the small mirror on the top of the counter to take a look at herself “I look good as hell, fuck. Well, I always do. Thanks, Tracy.”

“You’re welcome.” the girl looked around the store to see just a small amount of people, with no one being on the MAC counter.

She took a deep breath. Another day working as a makeup artist/counter in a freaking mall in Massachusetts. She could have been a star if it wasn’t for teen pregnancy. And, although Barbara was her favorite person in the whole world and the love she had for her was infinite, Trixie couldn’t help but imagine how things could have been different if she had went to college in New York.

“Fuck, five missing calls from Kyle.” she panicked when she saw her phone, and rushed to the employees lockers “I need to go, Vi. See you tomorrow. Good luck with Jamie."

She grabbed all her things and went to the parking lot where she entered her car and called Kyle.

”Answer, answer…“ the girl whispered before hearing a Hello from the other side of the call "Fuck, sorry I missed your calls, I was busy, are you still with her?”

“Where the hell are you, Trixie? Waiting is not part of our deal.” the boy answered “She’s here with me inside the car.”

“I’m on my way. Still on the mall’s parking lot, though, but it is not far.” Trixie snorted “By the way, you are her father. If you can’t stay with her for twenty minutes more than what we agreed with, I don’t know who will.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t prepared for it. I’ll let her in the playground, there are a couple of kids here. I have, unh, something to do. Bye, Trixie.”

“Kyle, you can’t just…” Trixie tried to say something, but he hang up “Such a dick.”

***

Katya sighed. Three months ago she would not have imagine herself going from an athlete in Russia to an unemployed, babysitting for her best friend who was kind enough to let her live with her in Massachusetts.

She wasn’t complaining about it. She loved America. People where much better then the Russians when talking about sexuality, for example. She even liked babysitting Melanie, although she wasn’t a big fan of kids. Since Ginger was so nice letting Katya stay with her, the least she could do was help with the kid.

Melanie was quite nice, to be honest. She definitely didn’t look like Danny DeVito, which means she looks a lot more like her father rather than like Ginger, but she had the personality of her mother. Katya would have full conversations with the six-year-old about anything.

Melanie was a big fan of Adele, enjoyed old-school movies and really liked the Spice Girls, since Ginger named her after the band. Katya taught her how to do some macaroni necklace and the both of them even had matching bracelets.

They would go get ice-cream and even go to the mall sometimes. This was the first time Melanie took her to the park, and Katya was low-key enjoying it. It was a shame that she couldn’t take a smoke on the playground area.

“Katya!” Melanie screamed, taking the woman out of her own thoughts.

“Да?” she looked at the ginger girl in front of her, full freckled face and a big smile really showing off her dimples.

“This is Barbara, she’s from school.” Katya stifled a laugh before she saw the girl. Barbara was the name of one of her four vaginas. It was a joke she made with someone in the past, but she still thought it was pretty funny.

“Stacey, Catherine, Barbara and Leslie.” she thought to herself “And they all hate each other.”

“Hello Barbara.” the Russian woman gave the girl a sympathetic smile before taking a look at her. Short blonde hair, baby blue dress with hot pink coat. A pink headband. The girl reminded her of a Polly Pocket, or something “How are you?"

"Barbie!” she heard a voice and saw the little girl open a huge smile. It was the moment when a actual Barbie Doll - only thicker - appeared. The young girl hugged the woman, who was wearing a coat very similar to her.

“So there’s an actual Barbie Girl who takes care of the young Barbie Girl?” she asked, and the woman smiled “Is she your older sister, Barbara?”

“No, she’s my mommy.” the little girl, giggled, and they saw the surprise in Katya’s eyes.

“Wanna go home, sweetheart?” the mother asked “Daddy let you here when he turned the phone off?"

"I wanna play with Melanie a bit more, can I?” Barbie asked, giving the woman her small backpack, and her mom nodded “Thanks, mommy. Love you so much."

"Love you too. Wait, take you coat off, you don’t want it to get dirty or something.” the woman whispered, before sitting by the Russian’s side. She saw her little girl and the ginger one rushing to the play ground, and couldn’t do anything other than smile.

“She really looks just like you. This is a compliment, by the way.” Katya said “My name is Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova, but you can call me Katya.”

“Thank you, I guess.” she smiled, unsure if that was an attempt to flirt with her “Beatrix Mattel. Call me Trixie.”

“So her name is Barbara Mattel? Now that’s a good name."

"I wish girl, I’m all about this Barbie thing…” Trixie sighed “She’s actually Barbara Krueger, it’s her dad’s last name.”

“You look so fucking young.” the Russian covered her mouth right after saying it, which made Trixie laugh “I’m sorry if this is invasive."

"No, that’s fine. I’m 23, I had Barbie with 17.” she grinned “How about you? Judging by your accent, you’re not from here, are you?”

“Oh, hell to the no.” Katya laughed out loud “I’m Russian, actually. And 26, babysitting my best friend’s kid. But, girl, you are so young! Are you married?"

"God, no. I…” Trixie then realized she was about to tell a complete stranger about her whole life, and decided not to “I’m not married at all. Barbie was, like, the only thing we did together.”

“Oh… That’s something. So you’re the one who takes care of her?” she could see that Trixie was kind of uncomfortable with the question “I’m really sorry for being invasive, Trixie, you don’t need to answer it. I, like, totally forgot we just met.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” the younger woman half smiled “I think it’s just a tricky subject to talk about, really. He’s a rich boy, if he wanted to raise her by himself he could. But he is an asshole. Especially when he found out that he got a lesbian pregnant.”

“He’s homophobic?"

"He’s more of that ’I’m not homophobic, but…’ kind of guy, which sucks even more, to be completely honest.” Trixie sighed, and Katya nodded.

“My parents think just like him. But, hey, shit happens.” the Russian woman shrugged and took a look at the two young girls “I’m lesbian too, you know.”

“Mommy, we need to go home! The Barbie TV special begins in 30 minutes!” Barbara rushed to her mom’s lap.

“Oh, of course sweetheart! Say goodbye to Melanie and Katya, then.” Trixie stood up, grabbing the pink backpack.

“Goodbye Katya, goodbye Mel!” she said quickly, putting her coat back on.

“Wait, are you coming here tomorrow?” Melanie asked. Katya was braiding the ginger curls.

“I’m here everyday after school, silly.” the blonde girl smiled, grabbing her mother’s hand.

“Are you coming here tomorrow?” Katya asked Trixie.

“Well, I don’t know. It depends on my job, really.” she saw that the Russian woman went a little disappointed “I’m here almost everyday, though. Once in a while my friend Kim comes to get her, when I can’t. But she’s here everyday, Kyle takes here from school and let her here so he doesn’t need to go to my house.” she rolled her eyes “It was a pleasure to meet you. Let’s hope that we can meet again tomorrow or something."

"Of course.” Katya smiled, and they saw both blondes making their way to the car.

A while passed and Katya was still braiding Melanie’s hair. That little girl had way too much hair for a six-year-old. She couldn’t help but think about the beautiful blonde Barbie Doll she had just met. She knew that Trixie for sure wasn’t on Tinder - she had spent way too time on the dating app to know who was and who wasn’t there.

“Are you into Barbara’s mom?” Mel asked when she stood up “Because I think you are.”

“Shut up, you’re six.” Katya stared at the girl, and then stood up too “Let’s go home, I kind of want to watch the Barbie TV special now.”

***

Trixie’s apartment wasn’t big at all. It had two rooms - hers and Barbara’s -, a living room that connected with a kitchen, and two bathrooms. It had the size they needed (and also, it was what she could pay for). But it was so well decorated that it took off from the fact that it was so small. And the only people who would often attend there were herself, Barbie and Kim. Pearl and Violet would also go there on especial occasions.

Kim was Trixie’s best friend since third grade, when they were the only girls who already used makeup. She was tall, Asian and chubby, looked like a sweet heart but could read any one for filth. She worked at a cafe and lived in the apartment on top of Trixie’s with her roommate Naomi, although she spent major time in Trixie’s place.

“It’s bedtime, sweetie, you need to sleep.” the blonde woman said to her kid, who was laying on the living room’s carpet while watching some random show at Discovery Home & Health.

“I actually don’t need to sleep.” Barbie said, slowly sitting up “Caitlyn from school told me that we can stay eleven days without sleeping. She even searched it on Google."

"Caitlyn is coming for you, Trix, if I were you I would watch out for this little bitch.” Kim whispered, which made the blonde giggle and roll her eyes.

“Yeah, but Caitlyn is not your mom, I am. So it is time for you to sleep.” Trixie watched her daughter make a puppy face “C'mon, Barbie, I let you stay awake for 10 minutes more than what I normally do.”

“Fine.” the young girl snorted “Goodnight mommy, I love you so much."

"Love you too.” the blonde kissed Barbie’s forehead, while hugging her.

“Goodnight, Kim.” she said on her way to her room.

“Hope you have some nice dreams.” the pink haired Asian said, and they both watched the “Now tell me about the park girl you said earlier.”

“Oh, okay.” Trixie sat up “When I arrived, Barbie was talking to this little ginger girl, and this blonde woman was there too. She thought we were sisters at first, which is fine.”

“It’s because you dress like a 12 year-old.” Kim laughed.

“Shut up. Anyways, Barbie and the little girl went to play and she started talking to me.”

“How was she, though?” the Asian girl asked “Like, appearance.”

“Well her clothes were definitely something out of this world. Like, she was wearing boots, a knee length denim skirt and a really ugly sweater with hideous pattern.” Trixie told her friend, who laughed “She was wearing her hair in boxer braids - is this the name of it? I don’t fucking know, that braid hairstyle that the Kardashians think they invented."

"Who the hell is this person, Trix. Literally, you are describing a cowgirl or something.”

“Look, I know it sounds weird, but… It kind of really suited her?” Kim frowned “I don’t know, bitch, it just did. And she didn’t look like a cowgirl at all. She had beautiful cheekbones, I must say. It would be fun to paint her. Her makeup was, like, fine. Nothing crazy like yours or mine, really black eye-shadow and red lips.”

“But you thought she flirted with you?”

“Girl, I don’t know if she was flirting with me. It gave me that vibes, but, like, the last time I had an experience with flirting was with Pearl, literally a year ago. And we know this ended up with me and her laughing and binge watching America’s Next Top Model. I don’t know if I’m desperate or some shit, but I think I secretly wished she was flirting."

"You are so thirsty, girl."

"Bitch, I haven’t properly hooked up with someone since fucking High School!” Trixie pointed.

“Girl, look at who you are talking to. I haven’t properly hooked up with someone since my mom gave me birth.”

***

Katya was sitting at Ginger’s dinner table in her pj’s while watching her friend’s daughter sleep on the couch. She was already smoking her third cigarette while listening to her Spotify playlist, which consisted in basically in a song called “The Same Parts” by some beautiful young girl whose name she didn’t bother to know, and also some old movies soundtrack.

You could tell Ginger was from Florida just by taking a look at her place: it only had pictures of her and her family in Gatorland, Kennedy Space Center and Disney World. There was also a plaque with “WELCOME TO FLORIDA, THE SUNSHINE STATE” written on it.

Some of Katya’s best memories were with Ginger, back in the day when she used to live in Florida too. They both met each other on High School, when they were skipping classes to smoke, although Ginger was two years older then Katya. After that they became inseparable, they even had matching tattoos of the yin yang symbol, where Katya had the black part and Ginger the white one. Also, Ginger was the first person that Katya came out to.

After High School ended for Katya, she moved back to Russia to work on gymnastics. Ginger on the other hand, got married to a man who lived in Boston, who made her move from Florida to Massachusetts with him. Unfortunately they got divorced and her ex-husband left the country. Now, Ginger lived with her six-year-old daughter, and her High School BFF.

When she heard the sound of the front door being unlocked, the Russian woman immediately left her cigarette on the ashtray and rushed to the door.

“Honey, I’m home.” Ginger giggled, leaving her purse on the floor when she saw the blonde waiting for her “Girl, with this hairstyle you’re looking like fucking Pucca or some shit like that.”

“First of all, it’s very nice to see you.” Katya opened a big smile “Second of all, Pucca is a badass girl who is much stronger than any guy that lived in her village. So, if my two little buns are good enough for Pucca, they are good for me too."

"I can’t believe you let Melanie sleep on the couch again, bitch.” Ginger rolled her eyes “She drools when she sleeps."

"It’s not my fault that she wanted to wait for you to come home, hooker.” the Russian replied.

“And it’s not my fault that I need to work to pay this fucking bills."

"Touché."

"Go put her in bed, please, I’m asthmatic and overweight so I can’t hold this child.” Ginger asked while sitting at the table where Katya was before she arrived.

“Won’t she wake up or something?”

“She sleeps like a log, don’t worry."

"Fine then.” Katya said, picking the little girl up “She’s not heavy at all, fucking bitch.” she watched the other woman laugh at her before she let Mel in the girl’s bed.

“Is she sleeping like a little angel?” Ginger asked, joking.

“Fuck off.” the blonde woman snorted, sitting on the chair next to her friend “Hey, I need to ask you something."

"I won’t shave your back, if that’s what you wanting me to do.” the redhead answered, making Katya burst out laughing.

“You fucking bitch, that was not what I wanted to ask. And by the way, I don’t have a hairy back.” she said, while she stopped laughing “But on a serious note, I do have a question.”

“Bring it on, I’m all ears.”

“Do you know any of Melanie’s school friends’s parents?”

“I know some of them, yeah. Some divorced moms like myself and some hoes who think no one know they are cheating on their husbands with another man. There are some dads too.” she took a sip of water “Why, do you want to know someone specific? Please don’t tell me you are hitting on married heterosexual woman, I know you are gross but please say you are not that gross.”

“I’m not hitting on nobody yet. Or maybe I am, but she’s not married. Or straight.” Katya spilled, and saw the curiosity on Ginger’s face “Her name is Beatrix Mattel.”

“Barbara’s mom?”

“You know, I almost cackled in front of the kid and Melanie when she told her name, because Barbara is how I named one of my four vaginas.” the Russian laughed “But anyways, yep, Barbara’s mom.”

“Well, she’s a very sweet girl. The bitch is, what, 23? She works with makeup or something like that and always wears pink.”

“Yeah, she mentioned that her daughter’s dad is a homophobic asshole who got her pregnant when she was 17.”

“When did you met her?”

“Earlier today when Mel and I went to the park she was there. We talked a bit.” she smirked “She’s really cute.”

“Stop liking my daughter’s friend’s mom, that’s creepy.” Ginger said, and Katya laughed.

“I don’t like her, girl, we literally met less then 24 hours ago. I just think she’s a really interesting figure who also happens to look very beautiful."

"You should add her on Facebook, her makeup jobs are good as hell. I always watch her little video tutorials, I guess that’s the name of it, I don’t fucking know. I only watch it because it’s beautiful, but I can’t do fucking mascara without looking like a potato that went wrong."

"Wait, do you have her on Facebook?” Katya’s jaw dropped, and Ginger nodded “Give me this fucking phone right now, bitch.”

***

“I think I should go up, Naomi is probably waiting or something. And you look tired.” Kim stood up from the couch they were sitting on.

“I sure am.” the blonde walked towards the front door, unlocking it “Goodnight, Kim. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.” the pinked hair woman waved when entering the elevator.

After closing the door, Trixie went to grab a glass of water for herself before going to bed. She was really tired, as always, specially because it was already 2 in the morning. It was all so quiet that, when she felt something holding her legs she almost had a heart attack.

“Holy fuck!” she gasped, putting a hand over her chest to feel the fast heart beats “Barbara, you almost killed me!”

“I didn’t want to scare you, I’m so sorry!” the little girl rushed to apologize.

“It-it’s okay honey, just please don’t do it again, okay?” Trixie bent so she could be at her daughter size “You were suppose to be sleeping, sweetie, why are you still awake? Were you waiting for Kim to leave?”

“No, but I just had a nightmare. Can I please sleep with you? I promise I won’t disturb."

"Barbie, this is the third time this week that you want to sleep with me, is there something going on?” the woman asked, concerned.

“No, nothing! I just feel better sleeping with you.” the girl said.

“Fine.” Trixie didn’t full believe that there was nothing going on, mainly because Barbie was never like that. But she pretended to.

They both went to Trixie’s room and lied on her bed. The woman stroked her daughter’s hair until the 6-year-old finally fell asleep.

“Love you.” Trixie whispered, before kissing the girl’s forehead and falling asleep by her side.

#it's all about barbie #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #lesbian au #fluff #djoodi #rpdr fanfiction #submission

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psychosprey · 6 years

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(ALL the unusual headcanons. I can't pick just 5 or 6)

Send me a # and I'll answer some unusual headcanonswhat’s your muse’s favorite album of all time / favorite artist?Favorite album, Adrian cannot pick, he likes a lot of music. But his favorite artist is Pink Floyd for the time being, and his all-time favorite song is Wish You Were Here.how do they listen to their music? ipod, mp3, computer, cd, records, etc?Typically, he'll listen to music through his earpiece when out on patrol. Not that Barbara approves.do they take baths or showers? do they prefer one over the other?Showers, generally, but if he's wanting to spend some quiet, doting time with his lover, baths all the way.do they wear their hair down when they sleep, or tied up / braided?When he had long hair? He slept with it down, all the time. Rarely ever tied it up.how many blankets / pillows do they like to have on their bed?Two blankets, three or four pillows.what do they normally dream about? nightmares or nonsense?Despite the cheery personality, he has near constant nightmares, usually about the Joker killing his mother, or his loved ones. Unfortunately, he's learned to sleep through them. Not that it's healthy.do they wake up groggy or alert? do they like mornings?He adores mornings, but God forbid he get out of bed to see them. The man cannot leave the blankets for a good hour even after he's out of sleep: and requires at least two cups of tea, since he's not a giant fan of coffee.what do they sleep in? pj’s, normal clothes, nothing?Nothing, usually. But if there's children or a guest in the house, he'll at least stick with pajama bottoms. Typically with the Bat-logo branded across his ass.what do they smell like? do they use perfume or cologne?Without cologne, Adrian typically smells like hot metals, grease, and hard work. With it, it's pine wood, old library books and leather.what shampoo scent do they like the best and why?On him? Anything to do with the mountains. He loves the outdoors, after all. On his lover, nothing beats lavender. They're his favorite flower and they're fajtastic forbinducing a sense of calm. bar soap or liquid? do they like loofahs?Liquid, loofahs.do they prefer sleeping alone or with someone else?He vastly prefers waking up with someone in his arms. Reminds him he isn't alone in the world, and it's kinda sweet. do they like the room cold or hot when they sleep?Cold. The colder the better. For one, it's good for you. For two, snuggles are the best.do they stay up too late? do they like staying up?Well, when you're a vigilante, "sleep" is something of a precious rarity. But he enjoys doing it.do they know how to drive? do they like to drive? Just about anything on wheels, he can drive. But he has a preference for motorcycles and sport cars.do they prefer taxis / buses / subways, etc? or none of the above?Taxis, typically, but that's onpy when he knows he can't get there or back with his bike.do they have pets? what kind? dogs, cats, etc?Nope, no pets. Unless one counts Charlie as a pet. She reminds him of a ferret.do they prefer cats or dogs? or neither?All the animals. Give him all the fur babies.what are their phobias? do they have any at all?He has a phobia of solitude. Being completely alone with nobody else around, for miles. Or being shunned and rejected. Basically, isolation.what do they hate being teased about? are they teased often?Not any more, but he hated being teased about his weight, when he was younger.did they have any fears growing up that they’ve since conquered?Fears of death and people, yeah. But he faces death daily now, and does his best to help and inspire people.do they have a fear they want to conquer, but haven’t yet?His fear of rejection amd isolation. how do they show fear? sweating, shaking, blankness, anger, etc?He's an angry scared, most definitely. And he stays that way.do they have a short temper? what’s most likely to set it off?Being the Joker, for one. Adrian has a hatred as intense as Jason's. Other than that, just being a general nuisance without remorse or explanation is a pretty good way to set him off. Thankfully, he's got a longer fuse.do they get scared easily? does loud noises, shouting, etc, scare them?Not in the least, unless the shouting is from Barbara.what are they most passionate about? what could they debate about for hours?Star Wars, most definitely, as well as just about any Nintendo series, anime, and other games, like Dark Souls.what do they never, ever want to speak of, ever?Losing Barbara. She's his world, and the mere thought of losing her can set him off, sometimes.do they have kids? do they want kids? if so, how many?He wants one biological child, but is wholly aware he might not get that chance, but otherwise he qualifies Charlotte as his "adopted little sister/ daughter".is there something they’d like to change about themselves physically?He wishes he was at least two inches taller.is there something about their personality they want to change?He wishes he could be more of a morning person.do they have good fashion sense? or do they just wear whatever?Leather, jeans, boots. He dresses like your typical bad boy do they critique others easily? do they judge from afar?Quite the opposite, actually. He refuses to critique until something obviously isn't right, and he reserves judgements for repeated actions.are they too hard on themselves over the little things?He can be, but in other circumstances, he's almost too "go with the flow".are they the jealous type? what are they most likely to be jealous of?Not jealous, per say, but he's got a nagging fear in the back of his head that if Dick showed up back in Babs' life, that Barbara will choose the blue bird over the purple one.are they possessive over their things? or over other people? both?Both. He's fought tooth and nail for everything that's gone right in his life, and gotham is a city of survivors.would they rather be alone or in a relationship?In a relationship.what do they think about polyamorous relationships? would they do it?He's okay with them, even tried to get one going. But he's firmly of the belief that love is love, and that if one party is neglected, then it's no longer a relationship.do they have parents / parental figures? do they have a good relationship with them?He had a good relationship with his mother, but that's about it.do they have siblings? if so, how many? do they like them?Do spiritual brothers count? Because he feels that sort of bond with all of the Robins.do they have a big family or a small family? no family? It was a small family, now it's no family, aside from Babs, aka the imagination wife.where would they want to live if they could live anywhere? why?Ideally, he'd have his own townhouse with Barbara on the outskirts of Gotham, with an overview of the bay. Someplace accessible but quiet. With room to expand underneath so they can continue their paralegal activities.are they happy in their current living situation? why or why not?He's still got the view of the bay, and a view of the bae. He's pretty happy where he is.do they like living alone or with another person / other people?Alone, usually, because he's still got a secret second life to live. But since Barbara knows and has her own secrets, life's pretty happy together.did they go to college, or are they attending? did / do they like it?He did go to college, and he enjoyed it. Doubly so when he started getting detention from a computer sciences teacher.what’s their dream job / profession? do they have one?Honestly, he bounces between engineer, psychologist, and work in Wayntech R&D. But his main job is as a school counselor.if they could control one thing in the world, what would it be?War. His ultimate goal is to obliterate violence and hatred born crimes.do they like tv shows or movies? or neither?do they have social media? do they like it or hate it? obsess over it?He likes media, strangely, aside from social media. Things like Myspace and Facebook are overrated and filled with people obsessing over pumpkin spice lattes.do they have a creative outlet? if so, what is it?Robots.where do they see themselves in 2 / 5 / 10 years?Married, successful, and happy. Or dead.

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biofunmy · 5 years

Text

Jewish Summer Camp With Campfires, Crafts and No Lights Out

As if on cue, the first camper I meet is a guy named Josh: a nice, 27-year-old Jewish boy with kind eyes, a subtle smile and the same name as my husband, another nice Jewish boy, back home.

“Do you know where Malbec is?” asks this Josh, Josh Blake, rolling his eyes, and then his suitcase, over a wide dirt path flanked by rickety cabins that have been renamed for the weekend. (Malbec and Cabernet, for the men; Pinot Grigio and Rosé for the women; Raisins for all.) “I don’t want to walk all the way over there, if it’s back there …” he says, sounding not unlike Woody Allen.

I don’t blame him. The camp is desert-hot and dusty. And he’s ultimately here, he later admits over bagels, because his parents paid the all-inclusive $525 for him to be. They met on this very land, albeit half a mile away. “Talk about pressure!” he says, laughing.

Ilana Rosenberg, 31, sitting nearby, agrees. “My mother said, ‘Have fun! Go meet your Jewish husband!’ My sister was like, ‘Mom, she could find a Jewish wife, too, you know’.”

American Jewish University owns these 2,800 acres in Southern California’s Simi Valley, which is home to rolling hills and herds of cows, the university’s Brandeis-Bardin Campus and Camp Alonim. Over the next three nights and four days, this 66-year-old summer camp for Jewish kids has been commandeered by a new kind of summer camp — Trybal Gatherings, for Jewish adults.

Trybal Gatherings was founded by Carine Warsawski, 34, a buoyant, Boston-bred M.B.A., with the goal of fostering lasting community among Jews in their 20s and 30s, and, ahem, a few in their 40s.

She held her first Gathering at Camp Eisner in the Berkshires in 2017, roping in mostly friends of friends. Over Labor Day weekend, it sold out, with 125 campers and a wait-list dozens’ deep. Last year, she added Wisconsin; next summer Atlanta, and has plans to expand from Seattle to Austin to Toronto.

Whereas traditions like Birthright Israel offer free trips to the homeland, Ms. Warsawski’s aim is to offer an immersive, low-commitment experience closer to home — one rooted not in Zionism or religious doctrine, but in the shared nostalgia of a Jewish-American rite of passage, complete with archery and horseback riding, and a roster that reads like it’s from the Old Testament. (At one point, I’d forgotten my name-necklace. “That’s O.K.!” someone joked. “It’s probably either Sarah or Rachel.”)

There are two main differences between Jewish kids’ camp and Jewish adults’ camp: No bedtime, and booze, lots of it. Kiddie-pools brimming with hard seltzer at Bubbe’s Beer Garden. Bottles of cheap wine at supper. Compostable flutes of bubbly at Arts & Crafts.

Also, adult campers have careers, though no one talks about them. Web developers and screenwriters, wedding planners and wardrobe stylists. And yes, a few doctors and lawyers. The majority came solo; others hand-in-hand and interfaith or happily married in matching outfits, like Emily and Rachel Leavitt — my Secret Santa, er, Mystery Moses.

It’s a mix of die-hard camp people reliving their glory days, once-homesick campers redoing their awkward years, and first-timers wondering what all the fuss is about. “My parents were immigrants from Iran! They didn’t know about camp!” says Baha Aghajani, 30. Neither did Saraf Shmutz, 39, who moved from Tel Aviv to San Diego. “My summers were ‘go play soccer and bug off.’”

As a writer who hasn’t been back to her camp, Young Judaea, in New Hampshire, in 25 years, I signed up to learn what’s moving Jews to opt for uncomfortable bunk beds and kosher-style mess halls, in lieu of a real vacation.

Trybal isn’t the only over-21 camp cropping up these days. Nor is it the only Jewish one. Camp Nai Nai Nai, which also operates on both coasts, and attracts a post-college, more conservative crowd. And “55+” Orthodox Jews have been davening at summer retreats for decades at places like Isabella Freedman where campers crochet kippahs and take day trips to Tanglewood, in the Berkshires.

Trybal is arguably the only camp, though, that starts the day with an “Abe Weissman Workout,” a calisthenics routine straight out of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.” (Tomato juice refreshers included, but no rompers.)

It’s also, explains Ms. Warsawski, “a place for people who are more -ish than Jew.” Like Molly Shapiro, 28, of Berkeley. ““This is my jam!” she says. “Synagogues today aren’t really designed for us. We want something less traditional, more affordable, more fun. I mean, playing cornhole isn’t Jewish, but we’re playing cornhole together!”

Togetherness is what Trybal is all about. The schedule is packed from early morning to midnight with get-to-know-you-games and group activities like partner massage and mah-jongg, pickling and pool time.

The next morning, I pass up dreamcatcher-making for challah baking. “Oh yeah, this is what I’m here for,” says Abel Horwitz, a young Robert Downey Jr., kneading dough we’ll later braid and adorn with toppings beyond the traditional sesame. Rainbow sprinkles. Peaches. Jalapeños. “Will 20 loaves be enough for all 60 of us tonight,” some Jews worry.

Next, it’s a tossup between the relationship workshop and the ropes course. I decide I like humans more than heights and head over to hear what the visiting Rabbi Sherre Hirsch, has to say. She reads a passage from the 20th-century philosopher Emmanuel Levinas and tells us to partner up. A 26-year-old named Sam and I stare into each other’s faces for a full five minutes. “Sit with the discomfort,” the rabbi urges. Reluctantly, I do. I smile. He winks. I wiggle, examining his wrinkle-free forehead and bushy eyebrows bound to grow bushier in old age, until my awkwardness turns to calm. I’m overwhelmed by a deep feeling of curiosity and compassion for this man, for myself, for humanity.

“That was a good reminder,” Ms. Aghajani says afterward. “To give people more of a chance. To not swipe so fast.”

After a grilled cheese buffet, there’s solar art and yoga and Slip-n-Slide kickball. I head for the hammocks, where a guy with long red hair is lounging in a tie-dyed Helvetica T-shirt that reads “Falafel & Sabich & Hummus & Schwarma.” It’s his third Trybal. He is the camp guitarist, and a rocket scientist in real life.

“I come to be a kid again,” Jeremy Hollander, 34, says. He pauses. “And to, you know, be with my people.” In real life, he doesn’t bring up the fact he’s Jewish. “‘Hollander’ isn’t ‘Schwartzenbaum’. People see me and usually think I’m Scottish or something.” He feels safer that way. Especially today, he says, with rising anti-Semitism. “The flame is being fanned. You never know who has what opinions. Here, I can let my hair down.” (Although, technically, it’s in a ponytail.)

“The only one thing I have to worry about at camp,” he says, “is when am I going to squeeze in a shower?”

Still, before sundown, we all emerge from our bunks neat and clean and dressed in white. “Can you believe I got this for $2.99 at Saks Off Fifth!” exclaims Lauren Katz, a volunteer staffer wearing lace. (We can’t.)

Picture time. “Say Cheese!” the camp photographer instructs. “But we’re lactose intolerant!” someone cries from the crowd.

We gather in a stone-lined grove, to sing and sway and cheek-kiss “Shabbat Shalom,” before making our way to the dining hall for a sit-down dinner of roast chicken. And, of course, plenty of challah.

It’s all so familiar to me. The tunes are different, but the Hebrew words are the same. The trees are eucalyptus, not pine, and Mr. Hollander is not the longhaired, tie-dye-clad musician from my old camp, and yet — he could be.

I agree with what he said earlier. There is something easy and assuring about spending a summer weekend like I used to (albeit for eight whole weeks): with my people. Or, at least with people who remind me of my people. New friends bonded by old memories.

Trybal is like a modern millennial shtetl, where gesundheits fly. And “Hava Nagila” plays at a Hawaiian luau. And campfire stories include, “How I Became a ‘Nice Jewish Guys’ Calendar Model.”

It’s an alternate, insular world where I find myself running through a field, streaked in war paint, chanting: “We have spirit, because we’re Blues! We have spirit because we’re Jews!”

It’s a universe where conversation flows from the Netflix show “Shtisel” to the lack of Jews in Santa Barbara to the universal disdain for online dating (despite the fact that Trybal is sponsored by JSwipe), to whether Ms. Rosenberg indeed met her future husband.

“We’ll see,” she says, smiling. She did make-out at Arts & Crafts with the Trybal barista: a boy she barely remembers being at her bat mitzvah.

On the last night, I slip quietly out of the luau, where the D.J. is rocking “Lean On Me.” I leave the Leavitt ladies in their twin Hawaiian shirts and my Rosé bunkmates dancing the macarena. Mr. Shmutz and the Cabernets are making reunion plans. Mr. Blake is flirting with one of his crushes.

I have an early flight to catch. Back to my husband and kids and, in a way, the future. In the morning, I’ll miss the friendship bracelets and the compliment circle and, like a true last day of camp: tears. For a moment I have FOMO. And then I realize, it’s fine. Sometimes an Irish goodbye is just as good as a Jewish one.

Rachel Levin is a contributor to the Travel section and the author, with Wise Sons Deli, of “EAT SOMETHING,” to be published in March, by Chronicle Books.

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