#also that brown boys appreciation post was inspired by him he was my muse for it

[fandom-will-be-my-fall]

Spill your heart out about Walter.

Okay so I basically got this question in what, January?? but I’m answering it now since I just rewatched the movie and have inspiration, sorry for the late reply Anon

Okay so, to start off this post with some keyboard smashing because that my primary go-to for expressing my emotions

sgklhfsgjksdlgdghkjlgjhOHUFLUSKHDGSLIDRGKJGKFSDHGlhjglksdhkglshglllllfa. knjcthxiudhusmnvsoidhéytbvonjyxclkkvbr. haeylicfvshdkgikc

HANDSOME BOY. HANDSOME. ‘NUFF SAID.

I could legit stare all day at his beautiful face… look at him. Enchanting sky blue eyes… fluffy, wavy brown hair, cute round cheeks, lovely smile… those hidden freckles that you can hardly spot and only in certain screenshots but nevertheless they’re there to raise the cuteness factor… ALSO HIS LASHES. MAYBE IT’S NATURAL?? MAYBE IT’S MAYBELLINE?? WE SHALL NEVER KNOW

Here you may be able to spot the freckles if you squint hard enough. I have 77 screenshots but this is the best example I could find.

Secondly… well, he’s a sticc. A short sticc at that (though still slightly taller than me bc I’m smol), but a sticc regardless! And that seems to be the most attractive cartoon body type for me. Don’t judge me, I just have a thing for twinks, I’m… twinksexual or whatever.

Look at him! He would fit through my doorcrack.

(Maaaybe the reason for me liking sticcs so much is partially the fact that I like the idea of a boyfriend I can protect and support, physically and emotionally. I’m mad at the universe for not letting me scoop him up in my arms bridal style and smooch the HECK outta him.)

I’ve encountered a few posts that claimed he’s got cake but, come on. That concept has canonically been proven to be false, even by Lance. This man is flat and you can pry this opinion off my cold, dead hands.

Speaking of hands! I like his big ol hands. Nice shape. They look soft. I wanna hold them.

According to a DVD commentary, and the visual facts, he has no shoulders whatsoever. Back in Venice Killian was able to restrain him effortlessly with only one foot on his chest, even as he kept struggling ans squirming and generally put in as much effort as he possibly could. Before then, he claimed the database was the first thing he has ever caught in his life.

Conclusion, our boi’s very much NOT athletic. Which makes sense for a scientist, braining all day and stuff, and because he probably barely even eats, or sleeps which are by the way both pretty concerning implications but anyway.

STOP BEATING UP THIS POOR FRAGILE LAD FOR GOD’S SAKE. Makes me want to protect him even more. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but you get what I mean.

Now, on to the actual reason I’m so head over heels for him, a.k.a his personality.

He is one of the sweetest, kindest, purest boy characters I have ever seen in fiction, if not THE number one himself. (All my other cinnamon roll crushes are, or have been a villain at some point and WILL resort to violence if provoked.) Look at him, his pacifism… is unbreakable. He’s dead set on making the world a better place, by peaceful ways, and helping humanity. If that’s not a quality to be cherished then IDK what is.

And he’s just such a refreshing character. He likes pink, K-dramas, glitter, kittens, things that aren’t traditionally “masculine” (but is never made fun of those things in particular in the movie) and I love that. Nothing’s sexier than a man who’s, despite society’s shitty standards, openly and unashamedly himself!

His femininity is, if anything, just another turn-on. (This didn’t intend to sound sexual… but oh well.) I love his little hand gestures and mannerisms, dorky ramblings, the way he says “yep” popping the “p” at the end, all the small yet significant traits that were incorporated into his character. Bless you, SiD creators, bless you.

Have I said that he’s a genius?? Which is pretty obvious but c’mon, he graduated at 15!! He can modify human genes!! He successfully turned a man into a pigeon on the first try!! (The serum wasn’t the first prototype but we can assume he didn’t experiment on living humans with the previous ones.) And he’s still just 20!! Like what is that if not hella fucking impressive???!??

His inventions, to the untrained eye, may seem “stupid” or “childish” but alas! The observer couldn’t be more wrong! Because despite the odd designs and themes they’re all highly effective, as we have witnessed in the battle against Killian. And he is extremely creative for coming up with such ideas! Told you he’s brilliant!!

Which makes me all the sadder about how much they underappreciated him at the agency. In his words, nobody ever listened to him, or gave him a chance. They just left him and his “weird” ideas next to the men’s bathroom and called it a day. How could they be so blind? Didn’t they see the potential in his inventions? Oh well. Maybe I’m just being a smartass bc I have more knowledge, living outside that universe. But I’m totally right.

And I was honestly ready to throw hands with Lance for hurting the boi even further. (I’d stand no chance whatsoever, but still.)

Oh no baby please don’t cry.

He did cry in that scene though… you could see a tear rolling down his cheek and if it wasn’t for the machine beeping… He did have a pretty rough day afterall. But HEY, if we dwell on it too much the scene loses its comedic effect!! A guy gets sad over a stupid soap opera, har har har!! Now let’s move on, keep it fast and snappy for the kids, don’t let them overthink it!! Can’t have any emotional breakdowns onscreen. Keep it lighthearted y’know. Then let’s kill a random side character and have our dear protagonist almost die twice.

(Well jokes on you Blue Sky! I’m no kid, but a devoted fangirl who can and will overthink any material of my fictional faves at any given opportunity.)

You know what else I love about him though?? His love for animals!! And pigeons, especially Lovey!! He loves her so much, gives her gluten free breadcrumbs, nuzzles her, the first thing he does when he finds out Lance can talk to the pigeons is ask if she loves him too!! Like… That’s so pure and wholesome.

This here. THIS RIGHT HERE. BROTP forever.

(Not gonna lie, I used to be crazy for pigeons for like, an entire year or something. Not as in looking up all the facts there are about pigeons as I do nowadays with cartoons, but I’d feed them regularly and write my little observations on their behaviors. Did you know they sometimes scratch their neck with their leggies like dogs do?)

I think I’ve summed up mostly everything I love about this nerd. Oh wait, almost forgot the sass!! I love how sassy and smug he can be sometimes, in like, a really harmless way but it’s still a very nice characteristic.

Since I’ve ran out of coherent things to say, here’s an incomplete list of things I want to do to Walter Beckett. Put at the end of this post so those of you who were only here for the analysis part and not the selfshippy gushing don’t have to read further:

kiss he

like seriously

just kiss he a whole lot

cover his whole face in kisses

one kiss for each of his freckles. a finishing kiss onto the tip of his nose. then repeat the cycle

hug him. hug him like the world is ending. hug him so tight he can barely breathe

then ofc let go and apologize bc I would never hurt him on purpose

cuddle him

hold him close, let him lay his head on my chest

run my fingers through his hair

listen to his breathing

discover that he’s fallen asleep on me and smile fondly, then soon drift off to sleep myself so we can wake up entangled in eachother the next morning

fuck he

pin him to a wall and snog he

make him go cherry red

fluster he

compliment him. praise him. appreciate him. he’s a prince, a hero, an angel, a wonderful human being and he needs to know this

feed pigeons together

listen to his scientific ramblings and bird facts

write him love letters and give them to him. maybe read it aloud myself if I’m feeling brave so I can see his reaction in real time

serenade he

be the love of his life, and have him be mine

just… soft things, man

cook something for this malnourished sticc

make him small handmade gifts

they’re nothing like his gadgets but I tried

draw he

have him be my muse in general

not like he isn’t now but it would be lovely if he was real too

carry him bridal style

be the feral cryptid that lurks in his house when he isn’t around

sing along to cheesy pop-song together really badly

watch cheesy rom coms

flirt with eachother clumsily until we’re both laughing at our awkwardness

or, alternatively, shower him with compliments until he literally cannot handle it

have sleepovers together

give him hand kisses

be of emotional support

#picpost #fangirl #walter beckett #F/O #didn't plan to make an entire essay #though on the other hand I exactly knew this would happen

[ladytp]

First lines meme

Tagged by lovely @hardlyfatal for this meme, and following the suit of her interesting and long post. The rules are: List the openings of the last ten stories you published. Look to see if there are any patterns that you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any!

I am tagging fellow writers @asimplylucia , @thefeatherofhope , @zip00198704 , @sarahtheblack , @weshallflyaway ,@bluecichlid and anyone else who feels thus inspired! Hopefully also including some kind of summary of their own conclusions if they see a pattern...

My own observations are that my openings seem to be a bit scattered; several where the actions starts immediately and we catch the characters in the middle of doing something, a few where the character is internally musing about something, and two (for special challenges, I may add) which start with a depiction, in an epistolary-type opening. Conclusions? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This Time, We'll Do Better 

The sounds of someone walking about, scraping noises of the furniture being moved, clink and clatter of something being set on the table, alerted Sansa from her deep slumber.

“Good morning, my lady. I trust your sleep was peaceful?”

She startled awake with a gasp, not only because of the presence of a stranger in the room, in her room, but also because of the odd way that stranger spoke. Formally, deferentially, with an accent that was not from Kings Landing nor from any other region of Westeros Sansa knew of.

Her heart drummed a few extra beats as her eyelids fluttered open – and then another realisation hit her. She was – as a matter of fact – not in her room. Not in her bedroom in her family’s comfortable house in White Harbour, nor in her modest hotel room on the foothills of Visenya’s Hill in King’s Landing.  She was…

Gods!

Horrified after latching on the last recollection of her still foggy mind Sansa shot up, expecting to see a disapproving frown of a museum guard directed at her. Instead, all she saw was a freckled face of a young girl dressed in a period costume, pouring water from a jug to a basin resting on a side table against the wall. At her sudden movement, the girl turned to her and smiled, a hesitant smile but one that looked genuine nonetheless.

In the Quiet of the Night, Candour

“Scheiße!” Lord John Grey muttered as he examined the rapidly swelling bruise in his left ankle. It already showed a distinctive shade of red, radiating from the ankle bone and promising to develop into a spread of interesting hues from purple to blue to yellow.

“Heiliger Strohsack!” he said a bit louder, attracting the attention of Jamie Fraser, who was cleaning sand and mud from his boots just a small distance away. It hurt, it hurt bloody much, and despite having endured worse Grey closed his eyes and hissed through his teeth. The Scot’s only reaction to this unusually unrefined show of displease –amplified by the use of German swearwords, exclusively reserved to most dire adversities - resulted however in no more than a raised eyebrow before he got back to his task.

And it had all gone so well up until – well, until things have started to go bad.

I’ll Share My Secrets If You Share Yours

Arya heard her coming; soft shuffle of steps, leather slippers against the stone floor. She heard everything and everyone, everywhere. Never would she be taken unawares again, never would she be in a situation not knowing who was near her, in the other room, in the castle, in the yard.

Sometimes it tired her – being alert at all times and never letting her guard down. At other times she was glad of her training and how it had become her second nature.

Safer that way.

“What are you thinking?”

Sansa smelled of herbs and flour and a log fire burning in the big ovens of Winterfell kitchens. Her tone was uncertain, guarded, but still, she made the effort. Arya respected that even though part of her found it alien. It had been such a long time when anyone had cared about her thoughts or paid attention to her state of being.

The newly established relationship between the sisters was still fragile and they both danced around the tender bond cautiously, willing to move forward but wary of what lay hidden under the surface. Their differences from a long time ago had been forgotten and pushed away like children’s foolish squabbles – which they truly had been – but their paths since then had been so different. What if there was nothing left but a name of their house to join them anymore?

Four Stages of Courtship

Stannis Baratheon shook his head and closed his eyes wearily, hearing the words but not truly registering their meaning. It had been the same that day, long ago, when Robert had told him that he was to forfeit Storm’s End to Renly while being forced to take that sevenforsaken Dragonstone as his own seat. He hadn’t believed him at first, thinking it to be only a distasteful jape at his expense, but when had Robert ever japed about things he wanted to go his way?

Still, surely he had heard her wrong.

Is she mocking me?

Stannis had accepted that this was a situation with no escape. He had fought and lost and now all there was to do was to die with honour. Stoic - he could be stoic. His whole life had prepared him for this moment; to die under a sword of an enemy. He only wondered if it would be a sword, or something more brutal.

He scanned the room and saw the dark-skinned soldiers in spiked caps carrying long spears lining the wall. Would he be subjected to a thrust of a spear instead? Or maybe a noose around his neck? Was he to become fodder for dragons, perhaps?

“I realise my proposal may be surprising to you, but let me assure you it is an honest one.” Her purple eyes fixed on him and Stannis, the man who didn’t shy away from beast nor man, flinched. There was a rare aura of utter self-confidence and certainty radiating from her, the slip of a girl. 

Past Was Such A Long Time Ago

Sandor touched the smooth surface with his fingertips, let them travel down the exposed grain admiring the way the shapes undulated and weaved their way in the wood. He could feel every nick and roughness clearly – he had lost callouses from years of holding a sword and musket already a long time ago, and his hands were now his most sensitive tool of the trade.

They were large and gnarled still; those of a man who works with them every day. Prominent veins formed the web against the backdrop of browned skin dotted with sunspots.

Old man’s hands.

He huffed and got back to work, finishing the already scraped surface into an even finer sheen. Swoosh – swoosh – swoosh, the pumice stone sang against the wood. There was a rhythm to it and he found himself in tune with it, with his body and soul.

It was the same rhythm and flow of peace he had finally found in his life, and his heart sang to its tune. 

A low growl from the floor alerted him and Sandor lifted his head.

“Quiet now, boy.”

The huge black dog sprawled down on his stomach went silent but revealed its teeth and a murmur below human hearing vibrated its chest, making Sandor glance out of the window.

He froze.

There, on the worn path leading to his little hut, walked a woman; tall and proud, carefully coiffed clusters of auburn curls framing her face and cascading down the front of her pale blue silk dress. The face whose features were achingly familiar although it had been a long, long time since he had last laid his eyes on it.

It was her.

Sansa Stark. 

Winter, thy enemy, thy friend

Sandor pushed the door open, the old gnarled wood giving in reluctantly as if wishing to hold on to the secrets it held behind it.

Damp smell, musty whiff. Coarse wooden furniture knocked over, dust settled on surfaces. That mattered not.

His feet felt leaden when he stepped across the threshold and collapsed onto the floor, the girl in his arms almost getting crushed under him. Deep ragged breaths filled his lungs with stale air. Safe.

After gathering his breath for a moment he scrambled onto his knees by pure force of his iron will – the same will that had seen them through the snowstorm and never-ending howling wind. Slowly he climbed to his full height, supporting his weight against the wall. He felt too weak to lift the girl but he dragged her by the shoulders just the same to the pallet at the back of the room. She looked like a broken doll lying there, face paler than snow. Sandor leaned in slightly and saw her lips quivering, her face screwed up in pain or cold or both. 

Good. She is still alive.

Would That She Would Cleanse Me

“What do you plan to do with her, Your Grace?”

Stannis had to duck to avoid being hit in the head by a load of planks carried on the shoulders of a builder, both navigating their way to the opposing directions through the corridors of Red Keep. He took no umbrage at the hapless man though - everyone was busy and the keep was seething activity; men going here and there, carrying things, running errands, shouting, arguing, trying to clean the mess left by the battle.

Yet the overarching impression was order – with a touch of chaos perhaps, but order just the same. And he liked it that way. Stannis was not the kind of war leader who let his men run amok among the conquered. The battle was one thing and ferociousness and mercilessness were to be expected during one, but after it was over, it was time for law and order to return.

Ser Davos Seaworth walked by his side, also ducking and weaving to keep up the pace with his king. They were on their way towards the throne room, where Stannis had called the key members of his council to gather on that first day of his rule.

Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

Stannis was not a vain man, but he appreciated the sound of that. Not that it mattered what he thought of it – the kingship was his by law and it was his duty, whether he liked it or not.

Until Thine Will Is Done

*BANG-CLATTER-CLANK*

A loud crash woke Sandor; the clatter and crash of tin mugs and claypots smashing against a stone floor.

He turned on his pallet trying to ignore the racket that followed; cries and shouts, the clumsy servant girl getting dressing down from her elder, and more clinks, rattles and sobs as the wretched wench tried to clean up the mess. Attempting to cling to the vestiges of deep slumber Sandor squeezed his eyes shut and curled his body into a tight coil. Even through the haze between sleep and wakefulness he knew that he didn’t want to wake up just yet.

No more were his nights filled with an abyss of dark horrors and impotent fury, only able to be conquered by stupor from drink or fatigue. These days his sleep was unperturbed, but even after many years the notion was still fresh for him and there were mornings when he woke up slowly, marvelling at the lack of nightmares.

Sometimes he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, with this newfound freedom.

Nonetheless, it was not the leisure of sleep that enticed him this morning, but the dread of the day ahead. Yet it was useless - his senses had been woken and his mind had already started to race ahead like a caged animal. Sandor cursed, pressed his face against the pillow and felt the tension in his muscles increasing until he was taut as a bowstring.

Fuck!

The Great Tournament, The New Noble Brotherhood And The Mystery Of The Missing Lady

It is with Special Pride that The Gazette announces the Beginnings of the Great Tournament to be held at the Gates of the Moon, that most illustrious keep of noble House Arryn.

As we advised our avid readers in our previous Edition, this Prodigious Tournament is devised for the Establishment of a new Brotherhood, the Brotherhood of Winged Knights, to serve the Noble Heir of this ancient house, the Lord of the Vale and the Warden of the East, young Lord Robert Arryn.

It was thus announced that four-and-sixty Knights have been invited to compete for the honour of serving Young Lord Robert in his personal guard, only eight brave Combatants to be afforded this privilege and the Right to bear Falcon’s wings in their war helms and guard their Lord. The competition will undoubtedly be Fierce, and will consist of several days of Jousting, Sword Fighting, Archery and Melee. Nonetheless, even those who shall not receive the Greatest Award will not go empty-handed, as the Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale, Lord Petyr Baelish, has donated heavy purses to the Second-Placed in each Category.

The young Knights of the Vale have endorsed these invitations overwhelmingly and every thus honoured Candidate has accepted the Challenge, and over the last days, these brave young Men have started to arrive in the Place of Festivities.

From Her Lips to His Ears

Act I - SCENE: Kingsroad, somewhere near Trident.

It is morning, the sun still low on the horizon, its warm rays falling on the hive of bustling activity on the ground. A young woman, hardly more than a girl, with delicate features and auburn hair, walks slowly along the side of the road with a huge direwolf following her on a leash. The road is crowded with soldiers, servants, wagons and supply carts, all busily getting ready for yet another day on the road. Dust swirls lazily in the air, raised by the commotion of many feet and wheels.

The girl walks unhurriedly, eyeing the activities curiously but cautiously, stepping aside to avoid a puddle of water spilt by men carrying buckets. The wolf presses her nose against her side and she scratches it behind the ear, talking softly to it as she does so.

A tall, broad-shouldered man clad in half-armour observes her from among the trees, near where the horses are tied up. His face is a ruin, half of it terribly burned, and despite his long dark hair being combed to the burned side to cover it, the sight is gruesome. His eyes are grey and sharp and relentlessly trained on the girl.

As she meanders closer to where the man is standing he squares his shoulders, sets his jaw and walks towards her. At first, the girl doesn’t pay him attention, but when he gets closer she notices him. An unsure beginning of a smile – forced and polite – appears on her face. The man speaks.

“That little sister of yours is getting herself into trouble.”

#meme #first lines meme #more like first paragraphs #as it is very hard to pick any theme from the first line or two... #long post #writing #fanfic writing #hmmm #conclusions #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[queen-asante]

ejucated immigrant

((AUTHOR’S NOTE: @eene-fangirl For the Fanfiction Weekend Challenge! I should probably wait to post this for Rolf Appreciation Month, but there’s a lot of Jonny backstory/headcanons in here, so I thought it would count. Basically, it’s a poem from Rolf’s POV but it’s technically about Jonny, or rather, Jonny was my muse for this.

I haven’t written a poem in Rolf’s ‘’voice’’ since 2014 but believe it or not, that one little line that Edd says in ‘’A Case of Ed’’ inspired the poem (you know, the one), and as I was reading Ntozake Shange’s for colored girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf, it produced said result. A turnip for your thoughts? I don’t normally write Rolf like this, it’s actually more like Rolf emulating Ntozake Shange for those familiar with her style. As an Indian Immigrant girl who’s considered suicide, that book changed my life, she’s my idol. Hence, the poem is written in ebonics and all lower case to pay homage to Shange (and I consciously dropped third person redundancies, it wasn’t a mistake). Three non-EEnE characters are briefly mentioned: the first one is Vanessa, my friend who’s half African-American and half Haitian. The second one is Ice, who belongs to my friend, Dani. Ice, in her world, is a black and white cat who becomes Double D’s pet. Rolf fears him because he’s not only black and white, but he shares the name of Immigration and Customs Enforcement by pure coincidence. Dani didn’t plan this, as she created Ice before she met me but she liked the idea of giving Rolf a reason to fear the cat, and so we came up with that story together. The third one is Dr. Feelgood who was my therapist, it’s not her real name, it was an affectionate nickname I coined for her in my years battling Bipolar Disorder Type 3.

As a closing thought, much apologies for the length, also tumblr’s going to mess up the format.))

‘’ejucated immigrant’’

dear gods,

i be 14 wit skin as rough as treebark & hands dat look old

i waz the dark skined immigrant wanting to bathe in bleach

Brown Black / Blue Black / Amber Beige / Bister Brick Bronze / Chestnut Chocolate Cinnamin

Copper / Drab / Dust / Ginger / Fawn / Ochre / Coffe Colourd Caramel

Tawny / Terra-Cotta / Henna / Sepia / Umbre

lookin in the thesurus eddward wit two ds give me when i come to dis country

everything spell Brown but nothing spell White

White sound nice like pearl like snow like milk like golden skined white skined light skined

honey dipped / lemon kissed / but begging for ivory / fair frosted silvery ashen boy jimmy

your white hands on my brown skin

i waz the dark skined immigrant botherin to drag you round

you stand there like a closed mouth statue & you insult my way of life

think you know everythin / rolf just some ignorant third world peasant or somethin

but we be livin dis way longer than the foundin of your land

your country young my country old

numbers & poppy / it just to give you illegitimately born breeds of donkeys

somethin to hee-haw over / science say there no gods either but who know dat

you cannot contain lightning bugs in a jar

i waz the dark skined immigrant dreamin of shakin the mr presidents hand

the former mr president wit eyes like a tired old man & Brown his Brown like a mud bath

it really too bad you know / rolf like your former president

dat black man who dont check dixtionaries for validation of his blackness

he not so bad / he waz sympathetic to the plight of the immigrant but his hands tied

not blame him / he not god he not have all the power in the world to fix dis weather

dis cloud dat hang over your land & who the hell is perfect?

it really such a shame / i dream to see the Hill / see the pearly house painted white the place where he live meet him shake his large brown hand / one brown hand to another

cept i not black / rolf not have to be / not pass / rolf european he is white not bloodless

he not pass he not be white enough for your country

cept i be white on the inside look coloured on the out but i aint no coloured

under my skin i am more than a colour

whoever herd of white passing for person of colour

but suddenly i get to dis country & i be treated no different than jonny

so alls i got is coloured dreams

poor grate nano lived & died on silly dreams / well they not exist

there be only reality & reality not kind to the dark skined indigenous immigrant

no one know what i supposed to be / take a wild guess

indian pakistani mexican romani rolf herd it all & none suppose right

they only looking at my face / the outside the outside not matter

cuz i waz the dark skined immigrant not italian not irish but the other kinds

& no one will see unless rolf cut open his veins & bleed

a Wood Nymph have my colour & if i check off the box dat say caucasian i get a funny look

from the lady sittin behind the counter wit the yellow nail polish & beaded eyeglass

spose if jonny do the same they wont believe him neither

jonny be good

yous see him dancin / wearin his stomach out / dark skined bare feet / swayin his hips

& grate thin arms but he not care dat he gots splinters in his fingertips

his nails turnin all black & blue & those chapped lips look like eyes starin out atchu

the gods make dis child the way he is

wit skinted knees & all & elbows pointed outwards readin you like a map

always wit the label on the left side

but he bootiful & he know it / beauty sometime come in the empty coffee can

not in the paper lillies or plastic pearls

you cant make a silk purse from a sows ear / even if dat ear be made of wood

of wood widda crayon drawn smile

jonnys mother the madwoman in the attic

rolf be certain jonny the wood boy some kind of elf from the passage of Valhöll

the mother of the Tree Sprite she not like rolf / well she not like any child it seems

weepy jimmy-boy & rolf invited to jonny-boys abode for a meeting of the Urban Rangers

& tho his mother never says so we feel she not like us very well

she never ast us to stay for lunch

even tho rolf personally would not eat a morsel of what these people eat

& we always been so polite to her but still she build walls

rolf believe she jealous of us becuz jonny likes us

she come out to the parlour / barefoot / flowers in her wild tangled mess of black raven hair

like yoko ono & wearing a long paisley skirt / she bootiful in an earthy sort of way

but she has a wild look in her eyes like a tigress

a violently insane expression like a german vampire dat make rolf think of bertha mason

she looms over her son like a dark older sister becuz they look so alike

altho her skin much darker / a deep chocolate brown / her complexion remind rolf of vanessa maybe she is haitian / she like the demon in nanas stories the one we all have widdin us

who comes out when we try too hard to be good children

she look at white as snow jimmy & myself like she disprove

either she not like us the uniforms or both

rolf forget tho these hippies wit their anti-establishment

they think every uniform represents what jonny calls ‘’the Man’’ & dats what it is rolf think

she not want jonny in the organisation

becuz she think it goes against their opposition to social norms

rolf could tell she wanted to ast us to leave / she not like jonny spending so much time wit us

becuz then he not at home meditating wit her or whatever it is they do

jonnys family is strange / they not eat meat & walk around shoeless

rolf has been called a gypsy by the children at school but flower child jonny seem to rolf more of a gypsy if there ever waz such a thing

he is almost ethereal / his family must be from a clan of faeries the kind nana warns rolf about but brown-skinned jonny seem harmless enough

i watch his mama put a daisy in the pocket of his jeans

i not know if his daddy be white or black but what difference does dat make

rolf understand it is important for a child to love their family no matter their faults

i know The Giving Tree still love his mother

even if she would prefer him to leave the Urban Rangers

of us three jimmy be the whitest of white jonny the blackest of black & i somewhere in between

but any one of us can walk into a puerto rican bar & start speakin spanish

& no one would know what we are

race too complicated & people too narrow minded / want everything boxed in

one day we waz layin on dat grassy knoll / jonny & i

where the trees whisper to us & we whisper back

cuz you know the boy talk to trees & i listen to his voice / & i be lookin at our hands you see

cuz we waz layin inches apart a flower between us & i tuck it behind his ear

then i look & see my skin only one shade lighter than his

tho the sun make me browner than i really be

out in the sun for hours & hours plowing & plowing the fields

by sundown i roasted coffee bean brown / as black as the inside of a chimney

& if i stumble into town any passing stranger would think i waz Black i mean African

id have to stay out of the sun for days to get my old colour black lest i wander round wit only the whites of my eyes visible on my sun burnt dyed rust brown brown skin

& hair so course youd suppose it come off a horses ass

lookin more like an American Indian than a White

i holdin the back of my hand up to jonnys now

how bout dat two brown hands one dark & one light but whos to say i not be a dark white & he not a light skined brown

dont you dare tell me what i am & am not

bitch dis aint no south africa where yous all can reassign us based on what you think

i aint no sandra laing but sometime i wouldnt mind bein black if it meant for you to leave me be

in fact ill gladly be whatever you want me to be but i am what i am

not black enough for black not white enough for white so what am i?

dont box me into Black & White / cuz in dis world brother dat not exist

im sorry as hell but i gettin real tired of bein called

an illegal / an alien / a wop / a gypsy / a guinea / a brownie whatever you want to call us

all your bigoted slurs clumping us together like we one & the same

dat fine but papers or no papers not define who i am

so uncle sam can take it & shove it

welcome to america!

i be having a long love affair wit your country & people

i also be having a war wit em

mama told me there are limits for dark skined immigrants stuck in dis light skined first world

we come over the border wit all the rest of them

wit all them people from central & south america

wit all them refugees from africa & asia

guess what we blend right in we look no different

look just like any other brown faced ‘’illegal alien’’

border patrol take one look at us & think we just like the rest

cuz yesterdays europeans are todays mexicans & middle easterners

coloured Sons of Shepherds gots few chances

what it like to be bilingual / to speak in two tounge

ah but to be fluent in one & not the other tryin to find any definishun in the dixtionary

in which i drop third person redunduncies cuz i only one person not three

& i only speak two language

you speak spanish?

no habla inglés

you speak english?

i dont speak spanish

one day the hat & head as one edd boy say oh rolf! youre so unejucated!

i think my ears deseeve me but i know what i herd

i wish to strike his milk honey cheeks full of nonsense

& say to him i am the ejucated immigrant you be warned about

dont talk to me bout ejucashun

i sale cross the oshun

i wash up on your shore

i lern another language

it wasnt easy

what you know bout ejucashun

all you know come from books & theories

at least i know where i stand

you are a child & i am old old old my hands notted thick wit veins like the roots of a tree

you say i sound angry / yea i angry but not as angry as you

cuz there nothing they fear more than a minority who knows what up

i used to be fraid but not no more

i used to fear the plainclothes agents in Black & White uniform

of immigration & customes enforecement / of ICE police

of eddwards Black & White cat name Ice on ICE

he must be making fool out of me to call a domesticated beast after homeland security

a cat in uniform because the gods make him so not by choice

like there be some purpose to it / i waz the dark skined immigrant you made fun of

i see what they do to the undocumented immigrant on the telly  

but now i not be fraid / becuz you cant touch me

so the grapefruit widda red ugly mouth & bleached hair sit in office now

damming all them people from ‘’shithole countries’’ / just as well but we here to stay

it not what i ast for but no use fighting it

& i will gladly pull the bookmarks from my english dixtionary

the one double d edd boy give me

no longer will i bathe in bleach / only use to washing dishes & floors

i not some bloody floor

‘���immigrant’’

at least i can spell dat  / i look it up in the dixtionary

websters dixtionary / who the hell is webster?

but now it marked up used copy wit yellow post it notes

i use it a lot to lern your tounge

i not smart but i sho as hell not unejucated / papa can tell me dat

i be in your country in first place to reseeve ‘’best ejucashun’’ like grate nano wanted

grate nano waz an adventurer / a dreamer wit big goals

he travell far & wide seeking fame & fortune

when he a very young boy immigrants from every cesspool in western & eastern europe set sale for The North / it waz always grate nanos dream to travel North

everyone say he more insane than a bovine wit mad cows disease

there no room in dis life for dreams they tell him / he prove our village wrong

when rolf eight years of age grate nano briefly left the Old Country to set sale for america

everyone say he be too old / he never too old for dreams

he wanted to find dat American Dream he hear so often about

spoken wit fondness by the tinkers who visit our land

he returned from his valiant voyage wit stories about what he seen

in the North  he said everyone has cars & money & television & running water

no one listen / The North the North they say dat is all you ever talk about

he waz a man who dreamed of a new life for his family & so he decided to send for us

& make a better life for ourselves after the plagues of the land had haunted our family for years grate nano promised us america he said youll soon be eating apple pie from off a china plate white picket fence / coca cola / santa clause / marilyn monroe / empire state building

it sound like a fairytale he spun a legend dat the streets waz paved wit gold

& we believed him for shining in grate nanos eye waz a dream & so here we are

rest his soul he wanted so much to buy us light & sun & clean wind of the oshun

‘’immigrant’’ waz a new word for rolf when he first come here

did not know after hearing the stories from grate nano dat he would soon be one himself

rolf not know what dat mean & still really dont

the dixtionary definishun say \ ˈi-mə-grənt \ noun. a person who comes to a country to take up permanent residence

\ ˈi-mə-ˌgrāt \ verb. [to go or remove into; in, into, and migrate, to remove.]

to come into a new country, region, or environment in order to settle there: opposed to emigrate.

oh sorry dat definishun not say we unclean people / flea invested vermin

sickly serpents who not speak english / greaser / sheenie

contagions of american society / incredibly dirty tramps fresh off the boat

so pervasive / such nonwhite filth / staring back at pitch black faces

not blonde haired & blue eyed / nonwhite skin only fit for dirt & waste work

mama papa kiss me goodbye i going to haiti

but it is what rolf is now it part of his identity just as much as the colour of his skin

just as much as bein a pagan / just as much as bein a male

just as much as bein the Son of a Shepherd

now rolf a new man living in the New World

i am an immigrant

sometime i wish i waz shug avery / bootiful fictional dark skin harlem singer

half man half woman / wit my large glittering masculine thighs i make an animal of men

maybe i have the courtesan complex

so i ast dr feelgood what my diag-nonsense

& she say poor soul you suffer from Stressed Shepherd Syndrome

okay so we all crazy in one way or another / it alright for some

of a mannequin in tears / of personal prejudices

im an unejucated farm boy from No Mans Land

im a poet who write in english

neisatnaf i isatnaf ne / ttim tetrejh dem gnyalp re lesgnel og gem tolrof nuh

rettenremmos i sirb ne mos rav ed / gem etlatrof nuh dro retsem nadrovh

etted tal eddejks rofrovh? / enneh lit gem trekided gej og enneh teksnø etrejh ttim

senneh enenyoø ås gej etted tla eddejks rofrovh

& this is for Sons of Shepherds who have considered suicide

fin

#my writing #poetry #poem #eene #ed edd n eddy #jonny #jonny 2x4 #rolf #jonny appreciation month