#also I refuse to take at value the comments she's made about Din

[jayne-hecate-writer]

They are at it again! Bloody Jedi... a ramble.

Like me, many of you will be fanatical Star Wars fans. Not only do I watch the films, but I wear Star Wars clothes, I have a Star Wars handbag and I wear Star Wars jewellery. Unlike many of you, I chose the Dark Side.

I have Imperial Symbols on my underwear, a TIE Fighter on my handbag and my second favourite Star Wars dress is black with a red Imperial symbol on the hem. My first favourite Star Wars dress is my custom made Purple Velvet one, made by a dear friend who runs a custom dress business here in Weston and this dress is probably more light side, than Dark. Star Wars makes up a big part of my life away from the big screen too, I read Star Wars novels, make Star Wars inspired art, I have a Disney Plus subscription purely for the Star Wars TV shows.

Warning: Spoilers Ahead... You have been warned! 

The Disney Plus series The Book of Boba Fett is a worthy addition to the Star Wars canon and has thus far proved to be a very compelling, watchable show and a perfect companion to the excellent series, The Mandalorian. The themes are rather more mature with this show and the action is fabulous, with just the right levels of action and drama. At its heart though is a simple message to this show of the value of kindness, respect and friendship. There have been over the weeks several moments of actual beauty with multicultural exchanges that deepen even further the lore of Star Wars and move away from the racist remarks of C3P0 and that kind of thoughtless intolerance. Through this show we have come to love the Tusken people and actually mourn them when they are murdered. They are a noble warrior people, with a deep connection to the planet and its mystical ways. We have also discovered that Jawas make interesting lovers, if a little furry for human tastes. Yet that is one of the great things about Star Wars, they embrace relationships between different species and same genders, with little or no comment because they are just normal.

However, there is one part of Star Wars I really dislike and this might surprise you, but I don't like the Jedi Order, Or Child Stealing religious fanatics as I prefer to call them. I have written before here, my views on the Jedi and what they do to the children they have removed from their parental homes. I have compared them to the more Earthly Catholic Church and expressed concern for some of the children in their care. Comments have been made in the novels about Jedi Masters physically or verbally abusing their Padowans, which I think is par for the course for fundamentalist religious organisations.

Take the latest episode of the Book of Boba Fett, Chapter 6 at the time of writing in which we meet again the character of Ahsoka Tano. Ahsoka was taken by the Jedi aged three and then abandoned by her accusers, the self deluding Jedi Council, after she was framed for a terrorist attack on the Jedi Temple. She left the order having seen what the Jedi will do to their own and even when she was back to leading a troop of Clones on Mandalore, she is denied the respect she deserves when speaking to the council. Years later she watched former Jedi child soldier, Kanan Jarrus (who is clearly still suffering with some PTSD) train another child soldier in the form of Ezra Bridger. Even here she restates that she is not a Jedi and cannot undertake Jedi business or open a Jedi temple.

Finally after the destruction of the Death Star over Endor and with the war over, Ahsoka found her way to Lothal and met up with Sabine Wren, another former child soldier this time raised by the Mandalorians. While searching for Ezra and Grand Admiral Thrawn, she met Din Djarin, (AKA The Mandalorian) and refuses to train Grogu because she saw first hand what Jedi training did to people who had not been taken into the cult soon enough, but who instead developed normal human responses and needs.  She clearly knows that the Jedi order create monsters. Yet we see her weeks, if not months later, in episode 6 of the Book of Boba Fett, where she is doting on Luke Skywalker and admiring his skill as a Master while he attempts to impart Jedi doctrine on a fifty year old child from a species that clearly takes around a hundred years to reach maturity. Has she truly learned nothing or has she simply forgotten it just so that she can spend time with the son of her former master? The Jedi are not fit to be raising children and we know this because of what happens when Luke is presented with the son of his Sister and fellow former Jedi, Leia.

With a clear head and a less angry heart, I think that what this series is showing us is that the Jedi are getting ready to fail all over again and they are building this beautifully. Luke is unsure as to what he should do, but Ahsoka backs him up telling him to trust his feelings. Then when Din Djarin comes to visit the child Grogu, whom Luke took away at the end of series two of the Mandalorian, Ahsoka denies him access to the child, using a form of emotional manipulation on him, a moment I found almost heart breaking because I had hoped for better from Ahsoka.

So if I step away from my anti-Jedi rants (Yes, I do align myself more with the Sith!), the world building of these two series has been fantastic and some of the best Star Wars to be made since glorious The Empire Strikes Back or more recently, Rogue One. I can only guess where this is going to go, but seeing the foundations of the new Jedi order being put in place and knowing that the arrogance and doctrine of the Jedi is going to make them fall once again is deeply gratifying (not just to the Sith in me!). When I first thought of writing this piece, I was full of disgust at what the two main Force Wielders are doing to the child in their care, including the use of the painful remote droid to teach Grogu to jump out of danger, which is in truth a form of negative reinforcement. “Has Luke learned nothing?” I found myself yelling at the screen! But they have already answered that question, using Luke's own words in the epic that is The Last Jedi (another of those fabulous movies that is much maligned by fans. Yes, once again I will state that I love that movie.). Luke is going to learn the hard lessons  from the mistakes that we fans can already see him making in this episode. From here, the Jedi order is doomed and I very much believe that Grogu is going to return to the care of his Step Father, Din Djarin to be raised as a Mandalorian. This is the first time Grogu is asked, rather than told what he should be and for this, Luke is right, although his doubts are maybe not the best place for him to be coming from. We know that it is his doubts that cause the rift between him and Ben Solo, poor Luke has such a hard life to come, but we can take comfort in knowing that he finds peace in the end.

However, what is it with Star Wars and bloody child soldiers?! We have witnessed that the cult of the Mandalorians is just as toxic as that of the Jedi, with yet more children warriors, taking up a creed that keeps them distant from each other by never showing their faces. We know how much Grogu means to Din, but to think that he is going to teach that child to follow the very same rules that he himself already broke to rescue his step son, makes me shudder. They cannot seriously be going down that route can they? The Armourer is in many ways another religious fanatic. Her clan has already been called religious zealots by Bo-Katan, who they claim is an iconoclast, plus there are strong hints that the Armourer is from Death Watch and at one time was even aligned to Maul, when he ruled Mandalore. Can we really expect Din to raise his step son in such a way? Given the sensitivity of what we have seen, with the reverence given to family and acceptance and multicultural exchange, I very much think not. At some point, the Armourer is going to be shown for the fanatic she is and I think that this may well put her at odds with Din and Grogu, as Din struggles to raise his son in the Mandalorian way. Indeed, it has been made a point from the earliest days of the Mandalorian, the helmet removal thing is serious and I do not believe that Din will in the end follow his own past and will hopefully teach Grogu about family, friendship and acceptance, away from the division of religious indoctrination.

#StarWars #the book of boba fett #The Mandalorian #Luke Skywalker #Ahsoka Tano #Spoilers #Fan theory #Jedi Order #The Last Jedi #Grogu

[captains-writing-desk]

Chapter Two: The Beast

Universe: The Mandalorian

Character: Din Djarin

Type: Reader insert (female)

Words: 2,610

Warnings: Swearing

Notes: Chapter two lads! Genuine question, is it weird that I’m just adding you to the story. Like I legitimately can’t tell if I’m just writing out the Mandalorian or if I’m actually adding anything of value to it...

-

Desert planets really were the worst, at least in your mind and the Mandalorian seemed to agree with you. Upon arrival on Tatooine, you were greeted with an old acquaintance of his who didn’t even know if Mos Pelgo was still standing until her droid pointed the way.

“Who’s your friend?” She asked him and gestured over his shoulder to where you were stood leaning against the the foot of the razor crest with your arms folded, listening to their discussion. He was hesitant in his response as in that moment he realised he didn’t even know your name. Thus far, he had never had to refer to you to anyone nor did he need to grab your attention for anything. He rarely asked for names, he would always find out in some way, much less was he inclined to give out his own name but he felt shameful at that momemt for not knowing yours.

“A passenger.” He eventually responded after glancing back at you.

“Another faceless stranger like you, huh?” She rocked the kid on her hip before handing him back over. He did not respond to her remark and simply thanked her before taking his leave, so you grabbed your new batons you’d gotten on the last stop off the floor and slid them into the holsters on your back where they lay crossed over one another.

-

“You sure there’s Mandalorian here?” You asked once you reached the town of Mos Pelgo, eyeing up the folk that resided there.

“I had word from Gor Koresh there had been a sighting here.” He seemed to be equally on edge as you were. So that’s what he had gotten up to when he went for a little walk into town the other day.

It was in a bar that you’d finally caught sight of this Mandalorian that was said to be here but much to the disappointment of your companion, he was not the real deal and subsequently he was to return his armour to be brought back to its own people which brought a tense situation about and surprisingly a Krayt Dragon straight through the village. A deal was eventually struck but something still felt a little bit iffy to you, so you kept your guard up. That armour was not his, yes but it was haunted.

-

Tusken raiders. This was going to be a fun team up, especially if this Cobb Vanth guy was going to get pissy about working with them at every opportune moment. You were getting pretty annoyed watching him refuse to drink with them and almost gave him a piece of your mind until he finally relented. Unfortunately for you however, he felt the need to come and sit with you away from the rest, probably in a state of embarassment.

“Well that was nasty..” He commented as he sat on the rock you’d perched yourself on but you made no comment and simply pulled out your blaster to inspect and keep yourself occupied.

“You’re not much of a talker either huh? “ You declined to comment once again, “Well just be grateful you didn’t have to drink whatever that shit was.” He drawled.

“Be grateful they even agreed to help after you refused to have one simple drink.” You finally piped up but kept your voice low and unwavering. He looked at you for a moment with his mouth slightly ajar then smiled a little.

“So you do have a voice.. and a ladies voice at that.” You felt the shift in his mood.

“I ain’t no lady, I can tell you that.” You remained fairly neutral with your annoyance subsiding ever so slightly.

“Oh I don’t doubt that..” He raised his brows and kicked his legs out in front of him then crossed one over the other. You stopped your blaster inspection and turned your head slightly to see him leaning back rather casually now and resting on his elbows. So he was getting flirty was he? You rather enjoyed taking someone’s ego down a peg or two sometimes.

“What do you mean by that?” Your tone gave nothing away but you mirrored his position.

“Well..” He was slightly taken back but he adjusted once he saw you lean back as he did, “I simply meant I can’t see you being particularly lady-like, maybe even fairly brazen..” He almost whispered the last word as he glanced around casually, his eyes briefly registering the Mandalorian who was almost certainly watching and listening in despite being preoccupied with the kid, so he turned in his side to keep a more intimate conversation going. You remained as you were and also noticed your companion’s attention running your way.

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” You asked, keeping your eyes on the Mandalorian.

“Is it not working?” He chuckled as he spoke softly, trying to maintain the intimacy.

“Do you see me trying to fuck you?” You looked at him now, briefly seeing your companion choke on his own saliva presumably.

“Well I wouldn’t expect you to try here.” He shrugged. This man was relentless.

“I would tear you apart before I even thought about trying.” You were so nonchalant he was almost disturbed by it.

Your eyes went to the Mandalorian again who seemed more relaxed than he had been the last time you looked. Truthfully he was grateful you had refused Vanth’s advances and was now finding it highly amusing.

“Alright, I get the hint,” Cobb laughed after finally speaking up, “However. I could probably get into that.” He hinted and you paused for a moment before finding the humour in what he had said.

“Well if I change my mind you can fuck around and find out.” You laughed under your breath.

“Deal.” He agreed with a hearty chuckle and then left you in peace to think about how maybe the company of others wasn’t entirely terrible and not everyone was out to get you. That last part was yet to be proved however.

-

You were stood just in front of the villagers and sand people, wanting front row seating on what was about to go down with the krayt beastie. You watched as the raiders took a bantha as an offering to what you assumed to be the front door of the great beast’s hideout. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little excited but moments later that all changed. Everything went to shit, it was too clever and it needed to be lured further out. Grappling hooks had been shot into its hide and there was a collective effort to hold them down but there was nowhere near enough man power to do anything against the strength of that thing. You shot one in an attempt to help keep the beast down but once it reared its head back, launching anyone attached into the air, you let go and let yourself come crashing down to the floor, winding yourself. You tucked your limbs in as raiders flew past you being dragged along by the ropes, you lifted your head and watched the last one blow past you, grabbing its rifle in the process then leapt to your feet and sprinted off to the side to keep the collective target off your back. You aimed your weapon and watched as it spewed some sort of acidic goo from its mouth, You didn’t know that could happen... Nor did you expect it to survive the ensuing blast.

You fired as soon as it reared its ugly head from the top of the cave and spewed more of that nasty green stuff. You liked a challenge but this was getting a little frustrating and required new tactics which were thin on the ground with this thing. Just as your mind went to the Mandalorians and their jetpacks, they took off up to the beast.

“Keep going!” You yelled to the crowd and joined them, fronting a heavy assault on the beast to keep its attention but it didn’t hold for long when the other two started firing and it retreated once more. God this thing was annoying...

There was a brief silence waiting for the next attack and locating where it would come from. You focussed yourself and felt for where it was coming from, whilst watching through your scope. ‘Behind.’ Something in you told you it was behind and you swing your body around to scan the dunes behind you but your vantage was poor so you moved closer to the group where the Mandalorians turned to follow your sight. Sure enough you were right and it came thundering down the dunes. Now what? All you could really do was shoot. Unless.. the bantha.

“Hey!” You got their attention and nodded to the bantha that was strapped with explosives.

“Get its attention.” The mandalorian instructed Vanth and that he did but the bantha was restless. Next thing you saw was Vanth being jetted off against his will and the Mandalorian holding tight to the bantha. You focussed your sight on the bantha but he was in the way.

“Move!” You called and he glanced at you but remained unmoved. You felt your blood boil and and your breathing slow down but before anything else could happen, he had been taken down with the dragon and you were left in a deafening silence, only briefly registering the kids concerned garbles.

‘Move.’ You repeated your last words to yourself and they echoed around your head, growing from a whisper to a frantic wail. You shook your head and snapped out of your daze a little too late to pay heed to your own warning. You started running but the ground beneath you broke and the dragon resurfaced, flicking you into the air at enough of an angle to let you land safely into a roll and back to your feet. You turned sharply, rifle at the ready but the Mandalorian hovered above it with the detenator in hand.

‘Fuck.’ You thought and lowered the rifle just in time to witness the explosion through your own eyes and your rifle being torn from your hands. You were however several feet in the air, watching the sand riple around you. The force of the explosion left you no room to right yourself in the air for a comfortable landing and it felt like forever that you were flying. You heard the kid in that moment again, his concerned little cry urging you to be alright. You took a deep breath and willed yourself to arch backwards until you saw the floor slowly getting closer. You pulled the batons from their place on your back and prayed they were a good investment then stretched your arms out above your head until they made contact with the sand. You kicked your foot and swung your body around to plant your feet on the ground too in s crouching position. You pressed down hard until you came to a stop next to Vanth who took his helmet off to make a point of looking at you, confusion plastered across his face for a moment.

You stood to your feet and he joined you in watching the beast, making sure it really was dead this time and given that it was practically torn apart you’d say it was. The job was done. The raiders and the villagers cheered at the sight of the fallen beast so you let your guard down and your legs gave way, letting you sink to your knees and catch your breath.

“You alright?” Vanth appeared beside you and knelt down to your level.

“Fucking A.” You panted as you stared at your hands, willing them to loosen their grip on the batons. Vanth disappeared and the kid appeared in his place next to you and rested his little hand on your thigh, you looked at him and felt your body relax itself.

“Thanks kid.” You sighed and touched the palm of your hand to his head before attempting to will yourself to your feet again but you felt the burn in your thighs as you shifted your weight forwards, making you groan in frustration and question why you pulled that stunt in the first place. Your life wasn’t in mortal danger so what was the point.

“Fuck sake.” You whispered to yourself and sighed again.

“You okay?” The Mandalorian stood before you now. ‘Great. More attention.’ You thought as you drew your gaze from his feet up to his helmet. You took in the little bits of slime that clung to the beskar and watched him extend his hand out to you. You felt anger again then and begrudgingly slapped your palm into his, letting him help you up because truthfully you needed it.

The Mandalorian wanted to ask you a million questions in that moment. They had all built up over the past few months but his stubbornness to remain withdrawn always got the better of him, especially since you were built the same way. You never asked him questions but then again, he didn’t seem to have an air about him. He was a damn good bounty hunter, he was great at his job and the best there was but he had the odd bit of technology on his side. There was nothing technological built into you, he knew this because he had scanned you once out of curiosity so the questions remained. How did you sense things so early? How were you so skilled in combat? And HOW did you twist your way out of a blast like that and kick your leg off of something that wasn’t there?

He was staring at you and you could almost hear the cogs grinding around in that bucket of his.

“You fucking idiot.” You finally broke the silence and jabbed a baton into his chest plate. You were short tempered, he knew that much but you seemed genuinely angry and he was surprised by such an oddly personal interaction. “Move out of the fucking way next time.” That definitely felt like a threat. He watched you walk past him and over to the carcass of the beast then he followed suit wordlessly.

-

Vanth stuck to his word and handed the armour over to the Mandalorian wishing him luck with the child then he stepped over to you.

“Any chance you fancy staying here?” That was an odd question you thought.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Truly you had no intention of sticking it out here.

“Just wondering if you’d changed your mind..” He grinned and you snorted.

“It’s far too hot for me here to even attempt that sort of business.” You put your hand on your hip.

“Well, you could fuck around and find out. On your next visit maybe.” He added with a smirk and you shook your head.

“Maybe.” You both knew you were lying but it was all harmless either way.

You bid your farewell as did the Mandalorian then you both started heading back to the ship. You took the armour from him to help distribut the load but it still felt haunted. You touched your palm to the helmet and paused for a moment then jerked your torso around to scan the horizons.

“What’s wrong?” The Mandalorian stopped just ahead of you and saw you looking back. You were too tired to deal with whatever business was going on, you felt no immediate threat so you shook it off and hooked the bundle over your back and proceeded in front of the Mandalorian.

“Nothing.” You mumbled on your way past as he stood watching where you had been looking then he sighed and followed suit.

#reader insert #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin/reader

[catlordewrites]

Between Rivers: Chapter Five

A Mandalorian can't show their face to anyone - with the exception of immediate family. Although they haven't known each other long, there's definitely something growing between them. But is it enough? When an ex-spy must look beneath the helmet to save Din Djarin's life, there's only one option that allows him to continue following his Creed. Marriage.

This story can also be found on Ao3 and Fanfiction.net

First Chapter - Previous Chapter - This Chapter - Next Chapter

Chapter Five

Din wasn’t at all surprised when she suddenly seemed to materialize on the Razor Crest. The bounty was in carbonite. She appeared just as the fog from the machine cleared, apparently having seen the act of leaving the ramp down and hatch open as an open invitation to join him; which it was.

“Nicely done,” she said approvingly. 

Din’s chest puffed out a little, but he didn’t otherwise acknowledge the compliment. He folded his arms across his cuirass and leaned against the carbonite freezer. “Is this a local job?”

She shook her head. “Two systems over. Dafin III.” She rummaged in her coat and came away with a tracking fob, which was blinking frantically.

Din’s head tilted. “You carry your own fob?”

She shrugged. “Some hunters get ahead of themselves.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he said lightly. “What about the Guild?”

“It’s not a Guild assignment.” She turned the fob over in her hand. “I have connections. One of them has the authority to distribute wanted bounties for the client. Clemint Vahst. He’ll vouch for you if anyone asks. But there shouldn’t be any questions about you bringing me in, anyway.”

“Good.” He accepted the fob and tucked it into his belt. “Who’s the client?”

“Redin Deedi. He’s a big figure in the Dafin underground. Bit of a local warlord, just influential enough to be annoying.”

“I’ve heard of him.” Din was already going through his mental files on Deedi. “What do you need from me?”

“I need you to actually take me in.” Her voice was serious and earnest. “He has a grudge. I need to be on my feet. If I were carbonite, I don’t trust him to not just leave me in it. Keep me for decoration.”

Din nodded. It lined up with what he already knew about Deedi. Making an example of traitors was fairly common. “So, unlocked cuffs. A few hidden blasters. But...” He cocked his head. “Deedi’s facility is a fortress. How do you plan to get out?”

She fixed him with her pale blue stare. “You take me in and walk away with the reward. The rest is nothing you need be concerned with.”

“Right.” He was making her suspicious, which was the last reaction he wanted from her. “I can help, though. If you... need it.”

Din internally cringed at himself. Was he really that desperate? 

Her head tilted minutely to the side, considering him. Her expression was unreadable. He had to fight to not fidget under the weight of her stare.

Finally, she seemed to relax, saying, “I appreciate your concern, but I have a plan, Mando. And it’s already in motion. This is the last piece of a puzzle. The rest is taken care of.”

Din wasn't sure why, but it felt like rejection. It stung. He bit back his disappointment. “Right. Good. Then we should go.” He straightened up. “Are you ready?”

She flashed him her wolffish smile. “Always.”

~0~0~0~ . . ~0~0~0~

This time, she rode with him in the cockpit. Din was acutely aware of her presence just behind him, lounging in the seat to his right with her feet propped up on the console. 

He tried to make a point of not looking around - of not speaking, despite how much he wanted to. He didn’t talk much - not anymore, at least, having learned early on that it was easier not to, easier to say exactly what needed to be said and to do exactly what needed to be done. No more, no less. 

And his previous blunder was a keen reminder of just how awkward he could be when he didn’t abide by those emotional barriers, of why it was better to just stay quiet and get the job done. 

He was a professional hunter. A Mandalorian warrior. He had a reputation. A code.

But just like how she’d gotten him to subvert the Guid Code, she was encouraging him to do the same to some of his personal ones. Except without bribery and credits.

Din didn’t know what to think.

“How are… the olfdo?” He tried carefully. She’d been happy to discuss them at length, last time, so he hoped that it was a safe topic. 

“They are well,” she said cheerfully. “Queen whelped at the end of summer. Three pups. Two male, one female.”

“Which one was Queen?”

“The alpha. A silver female. The biggest in the pack.”

Din nodded, vaguely remembering being stared down by a massive silver wolf. “I bet Nana likes having new pups to babysit.”

She smiled. “Yes, she is. It’s been… oh, four years since the last brood. And she likes being useful. I had to give her an orphan mucdat to care for so she would stop trying to baby my pit droids.”

Although realizing that she’d had droids without him noticing set his teeth on edge, he didn’t comment on it. 

“A mucdat? I’m not familiar with that species.”

She hummed. “They’re wildcats that roam the high mountains. Sometimes they come down and are killed by hunters or predators.” Her tone became wistful. “There are so few left, that when I come across an orphaned one, I’ll save it if I can. And the olfdo don’t mind them so much, especially if they were raised with the pack. There are five that haunt my woods, now. Six, when the new one is grown.”

“Huh,” was all Din had to say. “I… never saw them… during my visit.”

“They’re very shy,” she explained. “As elusive as they are, the Movetian government will not register them as a threatened species. They say that they’ve already been wiped out, and no more can be done… so now… it’s mostly just me.”

Frustration had crept into her voice. She pursed her lips to try and hide it, but Din was intrigued to stumble on something she cared deeply about. 

He turned his head to look at her more fully. “You... care a lot about your home.”

“Yes.” 

She didn’t elaborate further, and he didn’t want to press his luck. Din turned back to the controls, watching as hyperspace flashed and whirled past. The silence they lapsed into was easier than before, more contemplative than tense. 

For a while, Din was content to just sit and enjoy her company, but as Dafin III grew nearer, he had to break the silence.

“Who exactly does Deedi think I’m bringing in?” He asked, glancing at her over his battered pauldron. “Last time, you were Ena Sma. What’s the name on the puck?”

“Ah, I didn’t say?” She dropped her feet from where they’d been resting on the console and sat up a little straighter. Her accent switched again, just as dramatically and flawlessly as it had the last time she’d done so. 

This time, it sounded like she’d come straight from the Core. “Noa. Noa Enti. I’m a Coruscanti analyst from the Empirical Data Corps. I traded crucial information on Imperial patrol formations in exchange for safe harbor in the Dafin III Underworld.” 

She smirked, settling back into the seat again before adding. “Unfortunately, the flow of information goes both ways. Deedi forgot to account for that.”

“Noa Enti,” he echoed. “And what exactly happened to Ena Sma?”

She clucked her tongue ruefully. “Ah. I heard she met her end when she drove a speeder over the edge of the Festiv cliffs on Nefididi. Seven spice cartel guards followed. Gruesome. So sad.”

Din couldn’t stop the bemused puff of a laugh that caught in his modulator at her bright, matter-of-fact tone. He shook his head and turned back to the view screen. 

“You must be one hell of a spy,” he mused. “Ena. Noa. Are either of them even your real name?”

As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back. If asking about her escape plan had made her suspicious, asking about her true identity would surely turn her away for good. And rightfully so. 

Our secrecy is our survival. 

How would he feel if she’d asked for the location of his covert? 

Not very trusting, to say the least. 

Shockingly, she didn’t recoil. She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly and rested her arms across her chest. 

In her Core accent, she said, “What do you mean? My name’s Noa. I told you that.” She laughed humorlessly. “And a shit spy, thanks for asking. All I did was look into a few files that I shouldn’t have. And then they abduct my partner to get to me. Deedi needed a way in… and I…” Her voice cracked, she looked away, blinking back tears. “... I didn’t know what else to do…”

And damn, she was good. Her delivery was perfect. If he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve taken her story at face value. 

But she knew that he knew it was fake. So why bother? Why not just tell him to fuck off?

Then it clicked. She wasn’t telling him to drop the subject of identities. She was making a point. 

She wanted him to work for it. 

That he could do. 

“And… Ena Sma…” Din started slowly. “She is… was… a spice smuggler that leaked information to the Empire.”

She nodded. “So I’ve heard, anyway.”

He was starting to understand; she was doing more than letting him figure out her real name, she was letting him get a glimpse at her mentality, at how she operated.

Din felt oddly privileged.

“And the woman who lives in the cottage on Movet,” he said finally, “the one who cares for olfdo and rescues orphan mucdats, what’s her name?”

Noa Enti, a Core worker who had probably never even been to Movet, somehow knew the name of a very specific woman hidden away in the North Mountains. Weird, huh?

“Nenana,” she said lightly. “Nenana Orze. Though, she’s been rumored to have been dead for… oh… some twenty years, or so.”

Nenana Orze. 

“That’s a shame,” Din admitted softly, turning to face the controls as the Navcom started blinking to signal their imminent drop from hyperspace. “I liked her.”

“Mmm, yes,” Nenana hummed. He didn’t turn to look, but he could hear the smirk in her voice. “She liked you, too.”

The breath caught in Din’s throat. He refused to look around, but could picture her clearly in his mind’s eye; lounging on his jump seat, streaked with the deep blue light of hyperspace. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

~0~0~0~ .

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Maya Angelou

Introduction

Maya Angelou is the mother of modern African-American poetry. Her influence, both in message, meter and social and political change in the contemporary American sociopolitical and literary background has fundamentally paved the way for a rising generation of poets and authors, a new social understanding of her race and issues and provides a cornerstone in American literary and social history.

Hailed as one of the great voices of contemporary African American literature, and one of the greatest poetesses of all time, Marguerite ‘maya’ Annie Johnson-Angelou is best known and is still fondly remembered in the classroom classic “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1970)’, the first of several autobiographical books which contain the namesake poem. Angelou's literary works have generated critical and popular interest in part because they depict her triumph over formidable social discrimination, marginalization along with her struggle to achieve a sense of identity and self-acceptance, all the while maintain with her a wise and magnanimous charisma and undying passion to a humanitarian philosophy that still preaches a loving and forgiving gospel every time the verse of her immortal poetry leaps from the static of the radio or as recited by Whoopi Goldberg on The View.  

These themes were to tie Angelou's writings closely to the concerns of the feminist literary movement, closely associated with the 2nd Wave and the writings of Martha Nussbaum and Simone de Beauvoir. Angelou also incorporates much into her writing her vivid and colorful portrayals of women of immeasurable influence in her life—notably Annie Henderson, the paternal grandmother who helped raise her whom Maya lovingly calls in her poem as ‘Mama’, Mrs. Bertha Flowers, her flamboyant and confident English teacher who helped Angelou recover her speech in the two years of her selective mutism, and her mother, Vivian Baxter.

Critics such as myself have praised Angelou's bombastic and daring style and technique (most notable the cheeky way she uses meter), her icharous but tasteful humor, and insightful illuminations and profoundities of African American history and consciousness through the simple episodic still-life scenes of her personal experiences asportrayed in her works, most famously her 2008 collection of letters, poems and  stories ‘Letters to my Daughter’, detailing the letters from her mother and their relationship together. Angelou lives on, if not in her pages, be it in the din she has struck in the symphony of American literature

            Author’s Notes:

Adoration of this woman aside, I might as well inform of my standing and sociological and historiological observations before I comment any further. I would rather the reader understand what I do as so to avoid the conclusion of me misinterpreting the life, works and achievements of Maya Angelou.

Her achievements and legacy can never be downplayed, though, in her starting years, her success or at the very least, recognition, as a poet came from the simple fact that she was one of a kind; a black woman author- an a successful one at that. The only black poetess of comparable notariaty and success was Phyllis Wheatley, who preceded her by two-hundred years.

People in those times focused more on the fact and awe that a black woman was succeeding in the literary world it is fair to suspect that the public eye was on Maya for the wrong reasons. That the public eye was fixated on the poetess’ skin color rather than her actual words.

So i intend to be purely subjective in the biography, paying especially close and dear attention to the later parts about her earliest work and see it through a purely objective and formalistic sense of the work to strip away the vanity value that has plagued Angelou’s work, but ultimately propelled her to show her own litrary wit and merit later on.

This may be one of the few times in Angelou’s life, or in any African-American’s life for that matter, that racism and the abnormalization of Blacks succeeding might have helped her in her life, work and achievements. Maybe it was not in vain that early on the newspaper refreed to her as the “Black Poetry Lady”

                    Chapter 1: Little Maya

Angelou was born Marguerite Anniue Johnson on April 4, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri. Her father, Bailey Johnson, was a doorkeeper and naval dietician. He worked in a hotel welcoming customers and patrons in at the door and when war came he served as an assistant to the ship’s physician, taking medicines and vitamins to the soldiers and planning their rations aboard the ship. He retired when the war ended. Despite his low standing, he was a point of pride and someone to look up to for young Maya. He had an air to him that made him look and feel rich and important. When Maya asked her why he felt that way he simply told her that he is simply proud to be his skin color, wherein most people that time still felt insecure for being black.

His sense of humor, however, is unrivaled. He would stay over in the ship’s hammocks at the request of the soldiers who found the conditions of war bleak and depressing. His presence lit the room lighter than all the lamps there. He also and tends to draw people to him, such as any great conversationalist would. When it is time for him to leave, he takes Maya and Bailey with him where he drops them off in St. Louis with the mother they don't know. Maya narrates, 'Our father left St. Louis a few days later for California, and I was neither glad nor sorry. He was a stranger, and if he chose to leave us with a stranger, it was all of one piece.'

T’was a shame Maya never interacted much with this man. But if she did, however, I would not be writing this biography, for I would not now who this woman was, had her fate been any different that it is and has been now. But it might have been for the better. Bailey was a diabolic man. When Maya finally reconnected with him when she moved to California, she only saw her father when he was with Dolores, the girlfriend he had left Vivian for. And when Maya asked for some time with her father, Dolores would rudely interject. Bailey, who liked seeing Maya and his girlfriend Dolores fight and argue, would often bait them into doing so.

Her mother, Vivian Johnson, nee Baxton, was a nurse and realtor. When the job didn’t suite her and her dues where not paid in time, she worked in a hospital and later on the field. After Bailey left her and her kids, she decided to move in with her new sugar daddy, Mr. Freeman. You couldn’t blame her. What was an out of job realtor with no money supposed to do with two hungry mouths to feed? It was her pride or satisfying her children’s grumbling stomachs, and she did not think twice when picking the latter. Angelou's family lived in Missouri, Arkansas, then moved to California when they had the means to during her childhood. Angelou attended public schools and studied music, dance, and drama privately, for would it be known a black child was studying in school meant for whites were to be a travesty, an insult to the elite class.

In young tender age of eight years old, Maya followed her winding toy to her stepfather’s dressing room. He beckoned her in for a word and words escalated into intimacy, something that little Maya did not like. She tried to scream, but freeman’s hands held her mouth closed. When her mother arrived from work, she had found Maya in bed with a fever. When she was asked to get up to take her food and medicine, she refused, saying it hurts every time she does. Later that evening, when Vivian went to bathe her, that’s when she discovered the depravity of her husband as translated in the unamendable scars she found in her daughter’s purity. Later that night, she threw him out. The next day, he came back to beat her and Maya.

Word got out to Maya’s grandmother, and sooner or later, the authorities. Freeman was tried but released, miraculously despite him being black and secured of pedophilia.  However, the violation of little Maya did not sit well at all with her uncles, the sons of Mama Annie how frankly more fatherly figures to little Maya than Freeman ever was. That night, they took a metal bat, the thick end of a picket fence and a golf club to the corner were Freeman often stood to smoke. One of them flicked the cigarette from his mouth, and before he could land a punch, the blunt end of a picket fence spike swept across his face, making him fall back by a few feet. One on the ground, he was helpless. The uncles gathered around him and beat Freeman to death, every blow and lash for every day little Maya were to remember it; the disgusting act this monster had ensued upon her. Unfortunately, by the hundredth strike, Freeman had died; succumbing to the wounds and beating. They tossed his body under an overpass. Found the next day, the uncles convicted after, Maya decide to stay mute for nearly five years; afraid that her voice would do far more harm than all the metal bats, picket fence spikes and golf clubs in the world could ever do. Vivian would never forgive herself after this and only ever spoke to Maya on pieces of paper. On them phrases about mundanities such a breakfast and schoolwork, which soon grew into sentences that Maya would take to school in her lunch pale, which grew into paragraphs that she would read late at night, which finally grew into letters that nearly fifty years later, would be compiles and published detailing the events and emotions between a mother and daughter in the span of five years.

But despite her traumatic experience, it would serve as an impetus for her sexually implicit early myears. She slept around, and for her age then, it was but a slight taboo. She slept with a quarterback and the student-body vice president. No one knows why she did this despite her trauma, but in an autobiographical writing by Angelo herself, she stated that she wanted to affirm her heterosexuality public and personally and she wanted to know what it felt like when she was in control.

She and her brother moved in with their mother once again, who had since moved to Oakland, California. During World War II, Angelou attended the California Labor School to study the liberal Arts and get a degree. But such as any education, it came with significant financial assets in which her preoccupied mother could not assist her with. She would go nights without foos, often biting into her textbooks mistaking them for sandwiches. She needed to find a job before she had completely eaten through her precious and expensive history book, and to be ab le to afford the many others she need.  At the age of 16, she became the first black female cable car conductor in San Francisco. She wanted the job badly, admiring the uniforms of the operators— so much so that her mother referred to it as her "dream job." Her mother encouraged her to pursue the position, but warned her that she would need to arrive early and work harder than others. She never missed a day, never once made a mistake and received a kind comment every time the train engineer window passed by her station.

Despite the job, it did not pay well as much as she had hoped it would have and needed to find something that could keep her up at night and be worth the pay. She then worked as a shake dancer in night clubs, a fry cook in a hamburger joint called ‘Mellies’ where the oil accidentally burnt her arm and left it discolored and blackened, a dinner cook in a Creole restaurant where the owner said she could take one of the boiled crabs for lunch and only one, and once had a job in a mechanic’s shop, taking the paint off cars with her hands. This deeply callused her hands. When President Obama shook her hand, he expressed how her calluses where rougher than his. All this on top of the conducting job to make ends meet. Train conducting was good, but she would often have to borrow books or rent them with the wages she was earning. And with her hours and strict schedule, she would often have to return them before she could even get half way through the book. And so was born, out of necessity more than anything, Miss Calypso.

        Chapter 2: Miss Calyps(h)o

Three weeks after completing school, at the age of 17, she gave birth to her son, Clyde (who later changed his name to Guy Johnson). The father was unknown; the origin of the stereotype. Maya thought that with her new job as a dancer was to be temporary, that she wouldn’t need it anymore after she had finished school. But when Clyde popped out, she crawled back to her old boss who happily took her in and even marketed her. She had too. Clyde was ready to eat solids and she was already fleshed out of milk by then.

In 1951, Angelou married Enistasious ‘Tosh’ Angelos, a Greek electrician, former sailor, and aspiring musician, despite the condemnation of interracial relationships at the time and the disapproval of her mother. This is where Angelou’s humanitarianism and heart truly shines. In the midst of prejudice from both society and her own mother, she found something to love in tosh as Tosh found in her. Her heart knew Tosh and therefore knew no hate.

She took modern dance classes during this time to supplement and embolden her career as a backup dancer then. At that time, she began to socialize and gain connections and met dancers and choreographers Alvin Ailey and Ruth Beckford. Ailey and Angelou formed a dance team, calling themselves "Al and Rita", and performed modern dance at fraternal black organizations throughout San Francisco, but never became successful. They earned decent money, but they did not receive the acclaim and recognition that usually came with it. Angelou, her new husband, and her son moved to New York City so she could study African dance with Trinidadian dancer Pearl Primus, but they returned to San Francisco a year later when Pearl sustained an injury that prevented them from training any longer.

After Angelou's marriage ended in 1954, she danced professionally in clubs around San Francisco, including the nightclub the Purple Onion, where she sang and danced to calypso music, thus her stage name Miss Calypso. One of the comments from her patrons was that they enjoyed hearing calypso music from Maya because it sounded and felt more authentic contrary to when a white woman sang it. Her mangers suggested she change her name to Maya Angelou. Her stage runner and managers reasoned that it was easier to say and rolled off the tongue, something that was important when people started suggesting you to others. She would later use this as her penname in her writing career.

It was a "distinctive name" that set her apart and captured the feel of her calypso dance performances. Her movement was described as ‘flowing, primal and vigorous’, her audience in a cold sweat and cheers after every performance. Makes one wonder where she got those moves from and how different her dance skill would have been without the quarter back and mister student body vice-president back in her teen years. During 1954 and 1955, Angelou toured Europe with a production of the opera Porgy and Bess. She described her time there as hellishly cold. She suffered numerous short bouts of pneumonia and cough from having to perform with little clothing on. She bought a fur coat in Prague which she used to put on each and every time she would go on stage. She would often come to stage with the coat and take it off to throw so that an intern would catch it. And at the end of her performance, the intern would throw it back to her on stage as soon as possible. The audience then did not now that this was due to the cold, and the act of throwing ones coat off stage became iconic, all because Miss Maya couldn’t handle the frigid air of europe.

She began her practice of learning the language of every country she visited, and in a few years she gained proficiency in several languages; specifically, Dutch, Austrian, French, German, Italian, Russian and Spanish.  She enjoyed Spain the most but would still go onstage with coat, which would leave her body sweaty, which oddly enough added to the appeal in her performances. In 1957, riding on the popularity of the calypso genre, Angelou recorded her first album, Miss Calypso, which was reissued as a CD in 1996. She appeared in an off-Broadway review that inspired the 1957 film Calypso Heat Wave, in which Angelou sang and performed her own compositions.

               Chapter 3: The Poetess

Angelou met novelist John Oliver Killens in 1959 and, at his urging, moved to New York to concentrate on her writing career. The fact that she even had a writing career baffled her managers, who were reluctant to let her go, her success in calypso still on a high note. But she assured them that her choice was final and started compiling and editing her poems from her college years and published Why the Caged Bird Sings in 1969, with the namesake poem ‘Caged Bird’ being her first official poem.  She joined the Harlem Writers Guild, where she met several major African-American authors, including John Henrik Clarke, Rosa Guy, Paule Marshall, and Julian Mayfield, and was published for the first time. She respected them, but had a secret dislike for some of them, being too pompous and radical for her taste; often forgetting that being merciful and forgiving the whites was important in achieving racial equality. The comments stopped when Maya invited her ex-husband Tosh to one of the meetings one day.

In 1960, after meeting civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. and hearing him speak, she and Killens organized the legendary Cabaret for Freedom to benefit the Southern Christian Leadership Conference where she met many clergymen and pastors that condemned racism in their sermons. It was told that whenever a pastor that Maya knew where to sermon, all the white confederate landowners would bow down in shame. They would often ignore and brush it off when a black man complained about it, but they actually started taking it to heart when the pastor started his scathing polemics towards them. Nevertheless, she often advised the pastors to forgive and be merciful as she has been and she was named SCLC's Northern Coordinator in 1972. According to scholar Lyman B. Hagen, her contributions to civil rights as a fundraiser and SCLC organizer were successful and "eminently effective". She was at the ear side of every leader and preacher in every event, her advice and wisdom guided a new Christian theology of love and acceptance. She was supposed to be inducted to the British Quaker’s Humanitarian champion award, but the notice never arrived and Angelou did not know until her death, which by then the organization had been dissolved and the ward rendered meaningless. Angelou also began her pro-Castro and anti-apartheid activism during this time in African Ghana during the apartheid crisis. She accepted a position as an assistant administrator in the School of Music and Drama at the University of Ghana in Africa. Angelou taught and performed in several plays at the university before returning to the U.S. in 1966. Her students described professor Angelou as strict but caring, carrying a stick, but never really hitting anyone. Though her first official poem was “why the caged Bird Sings”, her first draft was for “Still I rise”, which later became the poem it was.

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise

Maya Angelou, "Still I Rise"

This was written in the heat of the apartheid and was her message to the African people to resist, remain loving and kind despite the errors of the white man. He sent the draft to Pastor Desmund Tutu, the famous humanitarian and theologian who spearheaded the anti-apartheid movement after Mandela’s death and even edited it for her, fixing the metric and suggesting to remove the obvious themes of accusation in order to appeal and inspire but not enrage, such was the teachings of Tutu.

    Chapter 4: The Doctor

In 1970, Angelou published her first book, the autobiography ‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’, which focuses on her struggles throughout her formative years and concludes with the birth of her son, Clyde ‘Guy’ Johnson, in 1945. It started, from my speculations and therefore confirming them, her very own speculations of her first works. She knew that she was but a vanity act at first. She was but a figure to look at the height of the apartheid. But she wanted to prove herself. She told others she would recite her poems for the president. Lo and behold, she recited her poem on the inauguration of Bill Clinton. It was said that day that she recited another poem, coming up with it on the spot, but reciting it in perfect metric

Some critics have faulted Angelou's poetry as superficial, citing its dependence on alliteration, heavy use of short lines, and conventional vocabulary. The kind of over simplicity that is often associated with poets of the yesteryears as opposed to a poet of the twenty-first century. She failed, at least in one aspect, to change with the times and was strictly puritan in her prose and poetry. This was seen as to regress poetry but instead became influential, kick starting the traditionalist style of poetry which is still seen and relevant today, albeit less popular than the freeform prose poetry kinds.

Others have praised the honest and candid nature of her poetry, lauding the strength and personal pride within her verse.  She has been described as “if a child with an active imagination had the skill and experience of an adult, such as to Miss Maya with her playful prose and poetry”. Scholars have asserted that Angelou's struggle to create a sense of identity and self-acceptance in both her poetry and prose aligns her firmly within the 2nd feminist literary tradition, often mentioning in her university addresses the influence of French feminist philosopher Simon de Beauvoir and American contemporary feminist philosopher Martha Nuasbaum, who she met and discussed topics with in 2012.

R. B. Stepto has noted the strong female presence in poems such as "And Still I Rise," commenting that "the 'I' of Angelou's refrain is obviously female and … a woman forthright about the sexual nuances of personal and social struggle."

Although some critics fault Angelou's autobiographies as lacking in moral complexity and universality, focusing mainly on one demographic and having no moral compass to align itself with any given set of values, others praise her narrative skills and impassioned responses to the challenges in her life. Many reviewers have acknowledged ‘The Heart of a Woman’ as sharply focused on women's struggles and issues (if the title didn’t already reveal itself to be as such) and as a self-examination of a mature writer and mother, despite her largely immature and erratic young audience. Overall, while the critiques on Angelou's autobiographies have been more favorable than reactions to her poetry, critics such as I generally agree that her writing is an important contribution not only to the autobiography genre, but to American literature as well.

Such as the Sabel Poetry Lady, I suppose…