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wishingstarinajar · 3 years

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I am going to ramble a bit but I will hide it under a cut because it's a bit long. It will be about the previous fandom I was active in around two years ago and how it affects me to this day. It's also about popularity and putting others on a pedestal.

If this sort of ramble isn't up your alley then feel very free to skip over this post! I don't mind. If you want to read more about it, just check under the cut.

The Franchise And Its Creators

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THE FRANCHISE AND ITS CREATORS Around mid-2014, I joined the Wakfu and Dofus fandoms, a small-ish fandom as a whole but popular in certain circles.

For those who don't know, Wakfu and Dofus are (online, console, mobile, figurine, card and board) games, comics, animated series, specials and movies created by a French studio named Ankama. These two franchises are intertwined with each other as they play out in the same universe but in different timelines. I myself dabbled around in the animated part of the fandom; I was a huge fan of the two series and the Dofus movie.

There was very little catering to the international part of the fandom when it came to the studio's attention and interactions. There were no English dubs or subtitles; international fans had to rely on English fan subtitles on ripped/pirated episodes of the show and movie, same for the franga/comics. Merch was hard to get. A lot of articles related to the shows and whatnot were in French only, which is understandable because it is a French-made product. But there's no denying that the international fanbase felt a little neglected back then.

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MY FANDOM JOURNEY

Because I was very interested in the lore of both franchises, I had to do a lot of digging and translating to be able to fully indulge in it all. I went full in! I dug deep, created OCs, art and also tried to write fanfiction. I also shared news and info about the series and movie; I ran a fan blog dedicated to sharing things with the international part of the fandom. I was also often approached about lore, particularly for a few of the canon characters and one of the races that play a role in the Wakfu franchise; the Eliatropes. It was fun, it felt good to help other fans out, it was nice to make friends and be creative with others about similar things.

Eventually, the character and art theft began. We all know this is a 'normal' part of fandoms, so I won't hammer too long on it. My issue with it was the fact that my main OC, a female Eliatrope, gathered a lot of attention because female Eliatropes were a rarity in the Wakfu franchise. They existed but didn't get a moment in the limelight, except for one that even received her own game (Islands of Wakfu) but it was so obscure that a lot of fans didn't know about its existence. My OC was somehow mistaken as canon by plenty of folks and many others started to use her as a template to create their own (female) Eliatrope OC. I didn't mind, as long as they weren't straight-up copies and I tried to be supportive by answering lore questions and give feedback whenever it was asked for it (which happened a lot). Of course, copying and theft happened more often than not; over the five years I was part of the fandom, I sent out almost a hundred DMCA reports for art and character theft (like true theft; I could handle some similarities or one-time occurrences). One particular case went to the extreme but I won't beat that dead horse any further; it brought me enough misery to last me half a lifetime, that's all I'll say on it. I kept a lot of the negative experiences behind closed doors and dealt with a lot of it quietly to not bother, worry or burden anyone else with any of it. I wanted a positive and supporting environment for my followers, even if the truth wasn't as pretty.

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ANKAMA'S STRUGGLE

Over the years, studio Ankama increased attempts to cater more to the international fanbase of its animated properties (articles in English, English dubs and subtitles, etc). However, the studio's struggle to garner the attention of international supporters (aka companies and sponsors) didn't go too smoothly, and to make matters worse, they were also struggling with finding a platform in France to broadcast the Wakfu series on after wishing to take a different and more mature direction. Ankama wanted more freedom with the Wakfu show, like less censorship, a serial rather than episodic, and it not being aimed at a young audience like its previous contractor demanded Wakfu to be. Ankama even turned to crowdfunding to get certain projects (like new Wakfu seasons) off the ground and let's just say that those crowdfunding projects are best described as tiny dumpster fires; they weren't pretty to watch. The first one was a disaster with plenty of displeased backers and the following crowdfunding attempts often didn't meet the end goal due to bad past experiences or the lack of interest.

Luckily, Netflix breathed some life into the international Wakfu fandom, which was great! But it was still received badly (mostly due to the awful English dub and sound mixing of the first two seasons and special) that the third season Netflix made possible was not getting the attention it deserved. It was also a rushed product due to financial and time constraints on Ankama's part. Netflix eventually declined a fourth season and it all fell a bit apart from there. Ankama turned to crowdfunding once more to try and make season 4 a reality. Last time I checked (which was quite a while ago), it did decently enough to make season 4 a reality. (Please don't ask me about it, I don't know anything about it.)

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THE PEDESTAL

While all this was happening behind the scenes, I was starting to struggle with the reputation I built up in the Wakfu and Dofus fandom over the few years I was a part of it. The best way to describe it is that I had grown exhausted.

Aside from dealing with the theft and answering people's questions daily, I wanted to be treated as an average fan but I kept getting put on a pedestal. People went as far as to call me by titles (like lady Wish and miss Wish) more often than not. To be called and treated as such made me feel alienated, like as if I wasn't considered real. I often asked to just be called Wish, no titles/formalities required, and that I wasn't as 'popular' as they believed, but the majority of the people didn't seem to listen. People were either afraid or refused to interact with me because they considered me 'too popular', or simply wanted nothing but my validation, feedback and/or free art. I also had my fair share of haters and people that didn't approve of my 'status' in the fandom. Join the club xD I wasn't very happy with it either.

I really started to dislike being called 'popular' because it had such a bad impact on the people around me (and my own mental wellbeing). Friends started to become jealous of the attention I garnered and it dragged me down every time. At times, it would turn toxic. It was never my intention to make my friends feel like they meant less because they surely didn't. To learn that they believed others were only friends with them or only looked at their art/writing because they were good friends with me hurt so much. It still does. I refuse to believe that was fully true because I was (and still am!) surrounded by very creative people and they all deserved as much attention as I was getting, at times more. I wish others saw it that way too.

I was also heavily chained down thanks to the role (model) I played in the fandom. Too many people (especially young ones) looked up to me and there were a lot of expectations that I felt forced to meet. I started to lose the energy for it, but if I dared to stray a little from the path, the pitchforks and torches would come out. It was very restricting.

In the end, I felt stuck. Things started to grow toxic. There was a point where I began to dislike the franchise because of the bad feelings it brought me. I couldn't even get myself to watch the series or movie anymore. I focused less and less on the canon side of things and more on my own ideas, which was one of the only comforts I really had left in the fandom. I started to shut myself off, which upset a lot of people. I am sorry for that, I wish it didn't happen that way but I was at my wits' end.

When I realized and also accepted that I was no longer enjoying myself with canon or fanon, I knew I had to move on or stuff would end badly. It was a very tough realization and decision to accept and make; I literally dedicated five years of my life to the fandom. I spent hours a day digging for info and news to translate and share, doing 'research' for my fanfics, answering questions, and whatnot. I truly lived the fandom day in and out. It was the first fandom I ever actively participated in to this degree. What the heck was I going to do without that?

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THE NOW

Abandoning the fandom was a scary step to take but not one I regret. I left the Wakfu and Dofus fandom behind me in late 2019. I feel freer now and so much happier. I no longer have the burden of expectations, being a lore guide or be forced to portray a certain role model weighing me down. I am no longer on that f*cking pedestal. I can finally explore interests that aren't exactly child-friendly without a big part of my following pummeling me down for it. (Don't worry, I always try my best to keep it in the appropriate places.)

Do I still like Wakfu/Dofus and all the stuff I've created with it? Yes, I do but I also want nothing more to do with it. Aside from the friends I've made there and also stuck around on my new adventures, I left the fandom behind me.

I still get approached at times about how my Wakfu OC, art and writing inspired someone and ask me if I could give them feedback for their own ideas or give them advice/information on Wakfu/lore. I am extremely humbled by it every time. It's great to see someone feeling inspired and be creative. However, I've moved on. I've left interacting with the Wakfu/Dofus fandom and fan-made stuff far behind me. I haven't touched it for almost two years and it shows on all the social media I share my art and writing on. I at times wish people could be considerate about the fact that I moved on but I also know and understand that not everyone knows my reasoning or my side of the story. I try not to be too harsh on it.

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MY ADVICE

I don't hate anyone for how things turned out; a lot of it was my own doing by not saying no or taking a stronger stand.

It did teach me a lot of things, especially about caring for my own well-being and putting others on pedestals. Please be mindful when you treat someone like others treated me before; it's not healthy, for yourself and the person you put on that high pedestal. Take everything in moderation and consideration, that's all. Everyone's human, everyone has feelings, and everyone deserves a sense of being. Even your favorite artists and content creators. Don't treat them like an otherwordly being that you have to worship.

In turn, if a fandom or something you enjoyed is making you unhappy nowadays, you owe it to yourself to make or find a change. Be good to yourself, always!

Thanks to anyone who read through this ramble. I needed to get this off my chest. I am not asking for advice, neither pity or whatever else. I just wanted to share my thoughts on past experiences because I have a feeling others might be going through something similar.

Thank you again, please take care.

#wish talks #wish rambles #edited with some format fixes

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 4 years

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After her marriage with Frank Randall has failed and Claire Beauchamp flees from her violent husband, she finds refuge in the house of the Fraser/Murray family in Berlin-Wilhelmshorst. But then tensions arise between Britain (which has since left the EU) and some EU member states. All holders of an English passport are required to leave EU territory within six weeks … and suddenly Claire’s fate looks more uncertain than ever.

This story was written for the #14DaysofOutlander event, hosted by @scotsmanandsassenach

“Glencoe” by dowchrisr

Chapter 2: 14 Men (1)

James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser was born and raised in the Scottish Highlands. But the development of world history made it impossible for him to spend the rest of his life in his beloved homeland. Well-read in European history and as a keen observer of global political developments, he had guessed early on that the hard "Brexit" of Great Britain would lead the (until then) United Kingdom into an unprecedented chaos.

“Brexit” by Foto-Rabe

When the Corona Pandemic ebbed in Europe and the British Isles and travel restrictions were largely lifted, James Fraser, as head of his clan, decided it was high time to leave the country he and his family loved so much. Many people around him, especially the other 13 members of the "New Jacobites", felt the same way. Some of his friends emigrated to the Republic of Ireland, others to France or the Netherlands. For Jamie and his family another door had opened many years before. Jared Fraser, one of Jamie's uncles, had gone to Paris in his youth and (starting from the French capital) had built up a flourishing, Europe-wide wine trade. He had also opened a branch in Berlin. From there the entire business for Germany and South-East Europe was coordinated. In order to save taxes and to invest the proceeds of his business profitably despite the European Central Bank's zero-interest policy at that time, Jared Fraser had bought real estate. Among the houses he had purchased in the state of Brandenburg was a well-preserved manor house just some kilometers outside of the German capital. After his death, this part of Jared's estate had fallen to Jamie and his sister Jenny.

So it came about that on the day it was decided at Westminster that the emergency laws passed because of the Corona Pandemic should remain in force, a container ship left the port of Edinburgh for the port of Rostock. The containers it was carrying contained most of the Fraser/Murray family's movable property. The family itself, Jamie, Ian, Jenny and the children, had boarded a Norwegian Airlines plane the night before, which took them to Berlin-Schönefeld Airport within four and a half hours with a stopover at Oslo-Gardermoen. When they arrived at the airport, Felix Kloppstock, the vice manager of the Berlin headquarters, who had become a trusted employee of Jared Fraser, had picked them up in a minibus owned and used by one of the wine shops. When they arrived in Wilhelmshorst near Potsdam, the house was already prepared for them. The beds were made and the smell of roast venison came from the kitchen, letting them know that dinner was ready. They were then greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Ballin. The 55-year-old housekeeper Helene and her husband Frieder had also been hired by Jared Fraser and entrusted with the management of the house years ago. When all the Frasers/Murrays fell into their beds late in that night, they did so with one laughing and one crying eye. Laughing because they knew they were safe now. Crying because they missed their home. And James Fraser was thinking about something else entirely. He was grateful that his parents didn’t had to witness the political developments of the present day. At the same time, he was overcome with a feeling of great sadness when he thought that he would probably not be able to visit their graves in the cemetery near Lallybroch for a very long time.

“Brandenburg” by reinhardweisener

Just a few days after their arrival at their new home at Wilhelmshorst, they were to learn from the media how right and decisive their step had been. They had put the children to bed after dinner and were now sitting together in the kitchen for a while. Jenny became as white as a sheet when the radio reported that the London government had announced that it would now explicitly use the emergency laws to take action against the Scottish independence movement, which was growing bigger and louder with every single day. Anyone suspected of being part of the "New Jacobites" or their followers should be arrested and charged with high treason. Ian, who was sitting next to Jenny at the kitchen table, looked up in horror. Jamie, who had just taken two bottles of beer from the fridge for himself and Ian, turned, looked at them and just sighed.

"This is what I've always been afraid of. But don't worry, our naturalization papers. identity cards and passports are on their way. I spoke to Ernst last night."

Ernst, more precisely Ernst Neuenburger, was Under State Secretary in the Federal Ministry of Economics. Jamie had met the official in 2018, when his uncle Jared took him to the ministry's summer party, introducing his nephew to the network he had been building across Europe for many years. (More than anybody else outside Scotland, Jared Fraser had dedicated his life with great zeal to the service of the "New Jacobites". Wherever on the continent he could, he had used his influence and financial resources to promote an independent Scotland with good relations to the EU). James Fraser and Ernst Neuenburger were immediately sympathetic to each other. And in the course of the day, Jamie discovered that Ernst Neuenburger was not only a competent interlocutor in economic matters, but that he had also a great affection for Scotland.

BMWi Goerckehof mit Brunnen by Fridolin freudenfett - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=62265692

"If we take the right of self-determination of peoples seriously, as laid down in Article 1(2) of the UN Charter, through the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights of December 19, 1966, then Scotland must be given the right to be a State in its own right," the Under Secretary of State had said.

Jamie had nodded in agreement and then, more jokingly, asked:

"Are you secretly a Jacobite, Mr. Neuenburger?"

"No, Mr. Fraser," the politician had replied with a smile, but with a very serious undertone in his voice, "I don't think you have to belong to any special group to stand up for freedom and self-governemenrt. To be a democrat is, in my opinion, quite enough."

Neuenburger, who obviously enjoyed talking to Jared Fraser's nephew, took a quick look around.

"Why don't we take a few steps," he then said, pointing with one hand towards a path that would lead them away from the center of the festival.

"Gladly," Jamie replied, and together they moved away from the crowd. Jamie well remembered seeing his uncle Jared as he walked away, talking to a man and a woman in the shade of a high hedge, also a little away from everyone else. Jared had smiled, nodded briefly to his nephew and then immediately returned to his conversation partners.

When they had moved about two hundred yards away, it was Jamie who resumed the conversation:

"It's interesting that you say that as a German, we're only used to revolutionary sounds from French people. The French supported us in earlier centuries, but the Germans..."

"If I may say so, Mr. Fraser," Neuenburger interjected, "the Germans didn't exist then. When the French supported the Scots, thanks to the political intrigues of the French, the Austrians and the Russians, there was only a patchwork of small and tiny German countries. It was Bismarck..."

"I know, I know. But they were Germans, the King of Hanover..."

"Oh, yes, of course. And no need you remind me that the Kingdom of Prussia was allied with the Kingdom of Hanover... But you know the saying: 'You can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends'. As you may know, George August II was a cousin of Frederick William I, the father of Frederick the Great. Both George II and Frederick I were brought up by their common grandmother, the Electoress Sophie at the palace of Herrenhausen near Hanover. It has been historically recorded that the men already had an aversion to each other as children. This aversion continued later, when they became men or kings, respectively."

Neuenburger paused with his remarks when a waitress appeared with a tray of glasses filled with champagne and offered them to the two men. Both men exchanged their empty glasses for full ones and continued their walk.

"Twice it almost came to war between Hanover and Prussia. Did you know that?" asked Neuenburger.

Jamie looked at him questioningly and shook his head slightly.

"In 1731 there was a dispute between the kingdoms and the royal families because Prussia was recruiting settlers wherever possible. George II issued an edict and assembled an army on the banks of the river Elbe. Friedrich Wilhelm I, on the other hand, had 40,000 soldiers stationed at Magdeburg to defend his territory if necessary. The dukes of Brunswick and Gotha mediated and were able to settle the dispute to a certain extent. A war was prevented. But it was a cold peace. At the same time as the Scottish resistance was crushed at Culloden, another dispute between Hanover and Prussia was smouldering. After the death of the last prince from the house of Cirksena in 1744, it was disputed who would inherit the county of East Frisia. On the part of the Frisian princes there had been a contract of inheritance with Hanover since 1691, but Frederick I had received a “Letter of Expektanz”, meaning an actual entitlement, from Emperor Leopold on 10 December 1694, which said, that after the extinction of the princely house of East Frisia the county should fall to the kingdom of Prussia. The decisive factor in this conflict, however, was the city of Emden. At that time the town was politically isolated and economically weakened. The reason for this was the “War of Appelle” fought in 1726/27. This war was actually a civil war and resulted from a conflict between Prince Georg Albrecht of East Frisia and the East Frisian Estates. It was, how could it be otherwise, about the tax sovereignty. But even after their defeat, the city leaders did not give up their goal of making Emden an important economic metropolis again. Since the 'Emden Revolution' in 1595 the city had the status of a quasi-autonomous urban republic. In this - successful - revolution the city had already freed itself once from the rule of the Cirksena and, as a ‘satellite’ of the Netherlands, achieved de facto the status of a free imperial city. From then on, the representatives of the city signed all contracts and public publications according to the Roman model with ‘S.P.Q.E.’ (Senate and People of Emden). The title ‘Respublica Emdana’ and the abbreviation ‘S. P. Q. E.’ were from then on officially used by the city. Understandable that the aldermen of the town wanted to return to this freedom and independence, which they had already once enjoyed. When the last Cirksena Prince took over his reign in 1734, the city had already refused to pay homage to him. But at least from 1740 on, the Emden councillors planned to achieve their goal with the help of the Prussian King. Secretly they negotiated the ‘Emden Convention’ with the Prussians. In this treaty, Prussia recognized the rights and privileges of the city of Emden and the East Frisian estates, and in return the East Frisian estates recognized the rule of Prussia after the death of the last prince from the house of Cirksena. It was a win-win situation. Prussia left the East Frisians and their estates the liberties they had enjoyed before and in return received a land with access to the North Sea. On 25 May 1744, two weeks after the Emden Convention had been ratified by both parties, the last prince of East Frisia died. Prussia immediately asserted its right of succession. The widowed Princess of East Frisia, a relative of Friedrich II, recognised the succession of Prussia on May 26th and recommended herself ‘to the protection and generosity of the King’. Frederick II had immediately instructed his representatives to make it known everywhere that the privileges and rights of the East Frisians would remain undiminished and that no enticement of East Frisian citizens was to be feared. With this reassuring message, the Prussian soldiers in Aurich and Leer were even positively received. The seizure of possession was already completed on June 2, just one week after the death of the Prince. Three weeks later, on June 23, 1744, the entire county paid homage to the Prussian Crown.

“Rathaus Emden” by fokkengerhard

What do you think, Fraser? Did they rejoice at it in Hanover, or better, in London? I don't think so. On June 3, the Hanoverian official Voigt arrived in East Frisia with papers demanding the rights of the Hanoverians. But there the whole thing was already finished. The speed with which the takeover of East Frisia took place, made possible by the careful and secret preparation, once again put the Hanoverian competitor in the shade. One cannot avoid the impression of dilettantism on the part of Hanover. It is true that they had also reacted immediately there by sending Voigt to East Frisia on June 3, with a corresponding power of attorney, but nobody wanted to accept him or his claims officially. On June 10, the Estates very aptly informed him that the contract which had been concluded between the House of Cirksena and the House of Hanover was neither known to them nor did it concern them, since neither they nor the Emperor had approved the document. East Frisia was also supposed to have a potential for conflict for some time to come. In 1748 the disputes over maritime trade became more intense, especially with the Netherlands, but also with England and Sweden. During the Seven Years' War, however, England then needed the support of Prussian soldiers and only in the course of this did it give up all claims in relation to East Frisia."

The two men had stopped and emptied their glasses.

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

“Brunnen im Kanonenhof des Invalidenhauses, heute Bundesministerium für Wirtschaft, Berlin” by Dirk Sattler - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=62311136

"Well, you said it was unusual to hear 'revolutionary' sounds from a German. Surely, as Frederick Engels once said, ‘revolutions in Prussia are made from above’. We may not be as revolutionary as the French, but please remember that we are a very, very freedom-loving people. The history of the First and Second World Wars is well known. However, the history of the our war of libration, 1813 to 1815, against Napoleon is often overlooked. The support from the people was so great that some historians even speak of the Prussian People's War. Men and women exchanged their golden wedding rings for iron rings to support their country. The phrase ‘gold I gave for iron’ became something like a proverb. A well-known picture, which spread after the wars of liberation, shows a returning soldier. He does not call out to his wife, who welcomes him with open arms, ‘I am back’ but ‘The fatherland is free! Victoria!' And it wasn't just then. Remember that this country has been struggling for 40 years to be reunited and thus to be free. Not aggressively, but with endurance. And when the Germans in the East brought down the SED regime, it was a peaceful revolution that brought the dictatorship to its knees. What do you think, Fraser, the people here would feel for a people that is oppressed by its, shall we say, bigger neighbour?"

Neuenburger slowly began to walk again. Jamie latched on.

"Why exactly are you telling me all of this?" he asked.

"Well, perhaps I wanted to remind you that revolutionary, i.e. cataclysmic, thoughts don't always have to unload themselves in a storm of the Bastille. Sometimes it is wiser to keep them to yourself and ... say, wait for the ratification of an Emden Convention. As far as I know, a freedom-loving people will always welcome and ... support the freedom, or rather the liberation, of another people.”

Neuenburger smiled. Jamie shook his head slightly and smiled too.

"Come Fraser," the newfound friend then said, "let's go. The buffet is open."

The conversation between the two men was not without consequences. Twice, once in autumn 2018 and once in summer 2019, Ernst Neuenburger had visited the Frasers' home estate in the Scottish Highlands as a holiday guest, before political events made these trips impossible for him. But the two men's confidence in each other had grown during these weeks of walking, horseback riding and hunting together, to the point that by the end of 2020 Jamie was able to make contact with his friend in Berlin unnoticed (through previously agreed 'private' channels). Everything that happened then, that had to happen to bring the Fraser/Murray family into safe exile, happened very quickly. It had to happen very quickly because the window of opportunity to do so was, as in any historical moment, only open for a very short time.

“Schottland” by Emphyrio

On the first Saturday evening that the Frasers/Murrays spent in their new home, Ernst Neuenburger came by to deliver the passports, identity cards and naturalisation papers for all family members. Jenny invited him for dinner and afterwards Jamie and the guest went to the library to talk in private. After the two men had discussed the political situation in Europe for a while over a glass of whisky in front of the fireplace, Ernst Neubauer leaned over to his host..

"We have a question for you..."

It had been clear to James Fraser that sooner or later Neuburger would approach him with a request. He didn't see it as extortion or payment. On the contrary, he was grateful if he could do something in return for the privileges granted. He would have been reluctant to remain a debtor to his friend.

"You must believe me when I tell you I didn't plan this. I have and will continue to do everything I can to help you and your family with great joy ..."

"Speak Ernst, straight forward."

"Well, you have some skills that would be very useful to us. You speak English, perfect French, very good German. You are intelligent and a man who can keep quiet. You also have a thriving wine trade and as a businessman..."

"... I can travel anywhere without raising suspicion?”

"Right. But the most important thing is that I trust you."

The men were silent for a moment.

"Would you be willing," Neuenburger then asked, "to act as an negotiator on our behalf and travel when necessary?"

"Shall I conclude ‘Emden conventions’ for the country?"

"Maybe."

Neuenburger had to smile. What a good memory Fraser owned!

"And where would that lead me to?"

"Well, first of all, to the African continent. 116 million Africans in 31 countries speak French. And counting. Your language skills predestine you for tasks in this field. However, we would ask you to learn Spanish and possibly Portuguese as well. Then we could also send you to South America. Of course, we will provide you with a language teacher paid by us."

Again the men were silent for a moment.

"How dangerous could these 'missions' be for me?" Jamie then asked.

"Not particularly," replied Neuenburger. "You are travelling as a businessman and that causes far less sensation than the travels of a politician or a political official. There are quite a number of, shall we say, colleagues of yours who do that for us. So far, every one of them has returned. We will, of course, prepare you thoroughly for your task."

Jamie pondered for a moment, then nodded and answered:

"Travailler pour le roi de Prusse? Jes suis prest! This country has provided me and my family with freedom and a new start here. If we were not here, I would probably be in an English prison by now. It's only fair that I give something back.”

"Thanks," said Neuenburger and went on “It’s not the King of Prussia, but a democratic republic you serve. Just saying.” Then he reached into the right inside pocket of his jacket and took out a fresh passport, which he handed to Jamie.

Jamie reached for it and opened the little red book.

"Well, well, well, you've thought up a nice alias for me."

Neuenburger smiled.

“Reisepass” by Edeltravel_

Four weeks later, Etienne Marcel de Provac Alexandre, alias James Fraser, began his first trip as a well-camouflaged diplomatic negotiator.

This and other journeys were to take him first to numerous states on the African continent. He negotiated political and economic contracts with other negotiators, lobbied for the release and repatriation of citizens in difficulty and delivered oral messages whose content was too secret to be transmitted by paper or electronic means. From 2023 on, when he became fluent in Spanish, he was also send to South America. One of his last trips took him to Buenos Aires, where he signed a trade agreement. Officially, however, he attended the "Conference of Argentine and Chilean Wine Merchants". In order to make his trip as unobtrusive as possible, he did not fly back to Berlin directly, but made a stopover in Boston. There, officially, he would meet a businessman, a friend, who was planning to include the wines which Etienne Marcel de Provac Alexandre sold, in his range. But in reality, this stopover was to change his life fundamentally. But James Fraser knew nothing of this when his plane landed at Logan International Airport.

#14DaysofOutlander #Outlander #Outlander Fan Fiction #From Boston to Berlin in 14 hours #Claire Beauchamp #Jamie Fraser #Ian Murray #Jenny Murray #Scotland #Germany #Boston #Berlin #Etienne Marcel de Provac Alexandre

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the-real-tc · 4 years

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Fic UPDATE! Wide River to Cross: Homecoming

Author’s Note: So close. We're so close now, dear readers. Thanks for sticking with me this far; not much longer now. I promise. As you'll see from the events in this chapter, it will be impossible to prolong the agony. (Who remembers the actual agony while watching Season 7, wondering what had happened between Jack and Lisa? I remember that agony...) All that aside, the good part about how long this story has taken me is that plot lines that have occurred down the line can be worked in, and they can make some semblance of sense. I hope. Anyway, here's the latest chapter.

Chapter 22: Homecoming

In the darkness of night, the tree-lined drive seemed eerily foreign to Lisa as the town car bore both her and Rachel to their familial estate. Though it was a view she had seen thousands of times in her life, this particular return to Fairfield granted her no trace of comfort or sense of homecoming. It was bordering on close to ten months that she had been absent—one of the longest spells she had been away since her past marriage to Dan and subsequent move to the USA.

Lisa could not help but recall other lengthy absences from Fairfield, particularly in her adolescence when she had attended boarding school in France with Rachel. While she had enjoyed those times away—thanks to her love of French culture and many outings with her doting Aunt Evelyn—the inevitable homesickness was alleviated only upon return. Now, she felt like a stranger returning to a strange place, creeping in like some interloper.

Like a thief in the night, she thought to herself wryly, fighting the encroaching discomposure without much success.

“We’re here, Rach,” Lisa whispered, giving her younger sibling a gentle nudge.

“Huh? Oh, thanks,” Rachel mumbled sleepily. “I didn’t realise I nodded off.”

She smiled slightly, watching as Rachel rubbed bleary eyes before finishing off with a long yawn. Rachel had endured only one flight; Lisa had needed three to return to Alberta. Exhaustion was indeed beginning to overwhelm her, but there was a nervous tension buzzing through her veins, keeping her on an unusual level of alertness. Now that she was back in Hudson, the mere thought of being in the same town as Jack—and potentially encountering him anywhere—set her mind spinning. How would such a meeting play out? What words could pass her lips to express to him all that was in her heart? What words, if any, would he have to say to her?

Security lights illuminated the exteriors of the stables, dispelling the shadows. Night checks would have already been completed by this hour. All was quiet now, though Lisa knew Harry Wilkes would probably still be up in his office, burning the midnight oil while waiting for their arrival.

Good ol’ Harry, Lisa thought with affection. He had been such a constant presence in her life since she was a little girl, working his way up from the very bottom as a stable hand to head groomsman. Matthew Stillman had come to trust the man with just about everything, and Lisa had done the same. Harry was dedicated to the care of the horses in a way that went beyond what was expected of a mere hired hand. Anyone else would have retired from the position by now, but Harry was still logging the same hours as he had during the past forty-five years as a Fairfield employee. He had been there through the lean years and through the successful ones.

Without her realising it, a long pout pulled at Lisa’s face as the car pulled to a stop in front of the sprawling ranch house. She knew Harry was not thrilled with the idea of her selling Fairfield, even though he was guaranteed a handsome severance package. The rest of the staff might be keen on staying on with new owners; Harry would not—Lisa was certain of that.

“Why the long face?” Rachel asked, looking over at her. “Something wrong?”

“Hmm?” Lisa shook herself. “Oh, no. It’s just that... I-I don’t think Harry is pleased with my decision to sell, that’s all.”

“So Harry’s still working here, eh?” Rachel said, lips quirking into a lop-sided smile. “Dad really lucked out when he hired him. He’s been here since before I was even born. Good ol’ Harry.”

“I honestly don’t think I could have managed without him when Dad got sick,” Lisa mused out loud.

Sure enough, the door to the Fairfield business offices opened to reveal the man in question, silhouetted against the interior lights. He waved jauntily at them, and Lisa intuited he was intent on helping them unload their luggage.

“C’mon,” she said to Rachel as she opened her door. “Let’s get out before he gets the idea we’re going to let him carry everything into the house. He’s been up all night waiting; he’s got to be tired after working all day.”

“Right,” Rachel said in agreement, though she was staving off another yawn of exhaustion.

“Ah, the two prettiest girls in Hudson have made their triumphant return,” Harry greeted them affectionately; paternally.

“Oh, Harry,” Lisa said with a chagrined laugh, “I don’t know about ‘triumphant’, and after travelling all day, we look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Ha! Speak for yourself, sis,” Rachel interjected merrily. “Harry, flattery gets you everywhere. It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise, Rachel.”

The three gathered for a warm group hug. As Lisa guessed moments earlier, the next words out of Harry’s mouth were an offer to bring their luggage inside.

“No, no, you take it easy Harry,” Lisa quickly stated. “You’ve had a long day, too. Rachel and I can manage just fine.”

“Nonsense,” Harry said, reaching for the largest of the pieces the chauffeur had just deposited from the trunk. “Your father would be horrified if he saw me standing by idly while you two dragged all this stuff by yourselves.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead in Hudson, I see,” Rachel quipped, following the older man with her carry-on and a smaller suitcase.

“Thanks, Harry,” Lisa said after everything was sitting in the spacious foyer.

“Happy to do it, Lisa,” Harry said. “Welcome home.”

“Yeah... for however long that’s going to be,” Lisa sighed.

“It’s going to be hard seeing this place go,” Harry uttered with a wistful air. “Fairfield has been a big part of Hudson ever since you made it the success it’s become, Lisa. This town won’t be the same without it—or you.”

Not unkindly, Lisa asked: “Is this your way of trying to talk me out of selling?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. I know an old fella like me who’s on his way to retirement can’t interfere with the business decisions of his boss, but you know this place has always been more than just a ’job’ for me.”

“I know,” Lisa said warmly, reaching out to touch his arm in a show of understanding. “And I thank you for everything you’ve done from the day my father hired you to this present time.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, placing a hand over hers for a few moments. “I should be on my way. See you in the morning.”

“Of course.”

Harry turned to make his exit, but hesitated on the threshold. “There is something...”

Lisa waited expectantly. “What is it?” she asked when he did not continue.

“Hmmph. Nah, it can wait ‘til tomorrow,” he muttered. “Goodnight, ladies.”

“’Bye,” Rachel said, trying to suppress another yawn.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Lisa said, closing the door behind him, slightly perturbed by the man’s cryptic parting words. Whatever it was, she would learn of it the next day.

As cranky as Jack was at the notion of having the woolly creatures on his land, Georgie’s 4H Club project meant sheep at Heartland was good for something. At least the kid could learn about the rearing of an animal she could handle. Lambs weren’t liable to trample you, gore you, buck you off, or kick you in the head. It was decidedly not fun chasing down the specific lamb Georgie and Olivia wanted, especially since they could not agree on which one was the best one for their needs. Jack half-suspected they were changing their fickle minds on purpose, just for the spectacle of his sprawling about in the grass and weeds, grabbing at this lamb or that lamb.

It should have been Tim’s job seeing after the sheep, but he picked that very week to head to Moose Jaw to visit with his son, Shane, so they could spend Thanksgiving together. Why was it his ex-son-in-law continued to be such an irritant and an imposition in his life? If not for Lou and Amy, the man would never again have darkened the door at Heartland.

After Georgie and Olivia finally settled on a lamb and Jack successfully secured it, he decided a little break was necessary. It was no use getting worked up over the flock again; also, the girls did not need his grumpy mood to ruin things for them. It was trial enough for Georgie to be partnered with Olivia, he knew, so he did his best to keep his cool while in their company.

Once inside the kitchen, he brewed a cup of tea and eased into a chair in the living room—the kitchen having been taken over by Peter and his laptop. The man really needed office space of some kind while he was here, Jack mused.

Why Tim felt the need to saddle his son-in-law with the nickname “The General” was beyond Jack, but then again, Tim knew exactly how to push other people’s buttons. The recent fiasco involving Tricia and her near-delinquent daughter, Jade, at the fishing cabin was a fine example of that.

Jack sipped at his tea, trying to resolve in his mind yet again why Tim possessed such an unbridled sense of entitlement. He lacked what Jack’s grandmother would have called social graces. His unsolicited comments could be tactless. The frustrating thing was that such comments were often uncomfortable truths no one else wanted to face or accept.

When Tim had first asked how the Arizona trip had been, Jack recalled initially telling him to mind his own business. Tim, ignoring Jack’s desire for privacy had asked, point-blank:

“You missed Lisa, didn’t you?”

”Didn’t I tell you to mind your own business?!” Jack had retorted. “I had a swell time.”

”You’re not fooling me, old man. What did you do with yourself down there the whole time? You couldn’t have been having that much of a ‘swell time’ because you cut it short and came home a week early!”

“I did happen to have some good times, thank you very much!”

“Yeah? Doing what?” Tim had challenged.

“Saddleback trip. Lookin’ at real estate. Meeting nice people. Camping and fishing.”

“Meeting nice people and fishing, eh? Catch anything good down there in Arizona?” Tim asked suggestively.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I hooked a very nice catfish.”

“Oooh! A catfish!” Tim had crooned, pretending to be impressed. “How big was it?”

Knowing he would not be able to lie any further, Jack had groaned in annoyance and decided it was time to cease this line of questioning. “Dunno,” he had sullenly replied. “It pulled free from the hook before I could reel it in. The sun was going down by then. I quit trying after that.”

“Ha!” Tim had laughed triumphantly. “Dinner out of a can that night, right?”

Jack grit his teeth. “No, I forgot to bring a can opener. Are you done, now?”

“You ‘forgot’ to bring a can opener?” Tim crowed in derision. “So why didn’t you just use your knife to open the can, or did you forget to bring a knife, too?”

“Oh, would you just shut up already!”

Jack stalked off and was thus out of earshot when a gleeful, self-righteous Tim muttered, “Ohhh, he totally missed Lisa.”

It was already after 10:00 a.m. when Lisa awoke on Saturday morning. The inevitable jet-lag felt especially pronounced this time around, and she groaned when she realised the lateness of the hour. She so wanted to soak up a few more hours of sleep, but knew work was waiting. There was the matter Harry mentioned the night before which she wanted to get to the bottom of, but the first order of business absolutely had to be contacting the real estate agent.

After a quick shower, she shared a hurried breakfast with Rachel. Her sister was still drowsy and not much in the mood to talk while they ate. When Rachel drifted back to bed for a nap, Lisa finally got on the phone to the realtor, glad they were indeed open that day despite it being a holiday long weekend. After all those months in France of dithering on this, it felt almost anti-climactic the sale would finally be happening. The deed is done, Lisa thought after hanging up. She was not sure what emotions she was experiencing now that Fairfield would officially be on the market.

Ruefully, she thought, I really should call Dan and tell him the ‘good’ news. In all truth, her ex-husband was the last person she wanted to speak to after all their less-than-pleasant email correspondences over the past several months. I wonder what Jack would think if I called him and told him I was back in Hudson? Lisa stopped herself cold. Where did that thought come from?! I would have to explain to him that I’m finally selling the old place and moving to France for good, wouldn’t I? I’d have to come up with some excuse as to why I didn’t even tell him I was coming back.

She stood from behind her desk and decided it was time to check in on Harry, brushing aside any further thoughts of both of her exes.

“Ah, Lisa! Good morning,” Harry greeted Lisa brightly when she knocked on the business office door.

“Good morning, Harry. I just got off the phone with the real estate people. Someone’s going to be by later this week to properly assess the property and get some signs posted and such.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod of understanding.

“Harry, about that thing you mentioned last night...”

“Oh, yes. That,” Harry said, lowering his voice.

Lisa caught his tone, and interpreted he was about to tell her something she would not particularly enjoy hearing. “Well, what is it?”

“It’s Dan,” Harry said in a manner that spoke volumes of disapproval.

“Dan? What’s he done now?” Lisa asked guardedly.

“You’d better follow me,” Harry said, rising from his seat.

He led Lisa out to the stables where they stopped in front of Fairfield Flyer’s stall. The champion racer seemed strong and healthy, and Lisa looked at her head groomsman, awaiting an explanation.

“Dan and some of his people and vets have been here to see Flyer and Rhapsody quite a few times while you were gone,” Harry started. “Since you have joint ownership, of course I couldn’t stop him.”

“Stop him from doing what?” Lisa asked, instantly on edge. Rhapsody was one of her broodmares.

“From getting all kinds of lab work done—and cell samples taken from Flyer.”

“Cell samples...” Lisa mused out loud.

Harry continued. “Rhapsody is already nine months pregnant. You had no idea, did you?” he asked warily as he studied her reaction. “Don’t answer that. Your expression tells me all I need to know.”

Lisa felt her cheeks flush. “I always did have a lousy poker face,” she grumbled.

“Ah, I should have known he didn’t tell you, but you know I’m not the type to interfere,” a contrite Harry said. “And given the nature of what he was doing, I wasn’t sure if you were both keeping it a secret, or what. Sorry, Lisa.”

“Don’t apologize; this isn’t remotely your fault. It seems I have a call to make to my ‘business partner’. Thanks, Harry.”

She strode out of the stables, absolutely steaming, trying to decide how best to have this conversation with Dan. Cell samples? That could only mean one thing, Lisa concluded, coupled with Dan’s recent talk about getting into horse cloning. He was trying to warm me up to the idea, she now realised.

“Where do you get off cloning Fairfield Flyer without even consulting with me first?!” Lisa exploded when she had Dan on the line.

“Now hold on just a minute, Lisa—” Dan tried to interrupt.

“No, you hold on; I’m not finished,” Lisa hissed through clenched teeth. “Harry told me you’ve been out to Fairfield to see Flyer and Rhapsody. This is the real reason you’ve been so demanding about the finances, isn’t it? You weren’t concerned about the Avignon facility—you were paying to have Flyer cloned. How many other horses did you have lined up for the procedure?”

From Dan’s silence, Lisa knew she had hit the nail on the head.

“When were you going to tell me?” Lisa fumed. “When were you going to tell me the Avignon deal was all a sham and that you were really using my investment funds to clone Flyer and God knows how many others?”

“Okay, simmer down,” Dan said, trying to placate her. “Avignon is still a go. But the focus has shifted slightly. It could be the best equine cloning facility in Europe, Lisa. If the clone of Flyer is a success, we’re going to take it to Avignon as the poster boy for the procedure in race horses. We’d be one of the first out of the gate doing this. We could make history, Lisa, because the Racing Association is bound to come around once more people get on board.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Lisa had to keep herself from shouting. “You go behind my back, and-and then try to tell me you’re shifting the focus of the breeding facility we planned in France?”

“All that stuff you learned in that Lexington conference about performance markers is great, Lisa,” Dan said, “but that’s yesterday’s science. Cloning is the future. Do you really want to be left behind?”

Lisa realised she was still too angry to have a rational talk with Dan. “Let’s table that question,” she finally said. “I just got into Hudson late last night, and I’m too tired to deal with this right now. But make no mistake, Dan, I’m not impressed you went behind my back.”

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Dan said, sounding almost relieved. “Hang on, did you just say you’re back in Hudson?”

Lisa clenched her teeth in irritation. “How else do you think I found out about Flyer?”

“Uhhh—Harry told you, didn’t he?”

“Of course Harry told me,” snapped Lisa, relishing the discomfort she heard in Dan’s voice. He sounded as if he were a guilty schoolboy.

“I see,” Dan said in resignation. “Wait, if you’re in Hudson, does that mean you’ve finally put Fairfield on the market?”

“Yes, Dan, you’ll be happy to know I took care of that chore before calling you,” Lisa replied testily.

“Good! That’s great!” Dan exclaimed. “Finally. Look, Lisa, I get you’re upset about the cloning thing. You’re right; I should have included you in that decision. But Flyer is mine, too. I think in time, you’ll see—”

“Ah, but Rhapsody is mine,” Lisa cut in. “You’re still on shaky ground, Dan. As I said just now, we’ll discuss this later. You’ll be lucky if I don’t decide to involve my lawyer with this one.”

She heard his exhalation of discontent, but she frankly did not care. Misappropriation of funds, she thought. Yeah, that has a nice ring to it.

“Come on, Lisa. Are you really going to split hairs like that?” he whined. “Aren’t we business partners in this whole breeding venture?”

It took all the control she could muster not to slam down the phone. Instead, she took a steadying breath before responding. “That didn’t give you the right to use Rhapsody for your cloning experiment without consulting with me first. But what’s done is done. Like I said, I’m not in the mood to discuss this right now. Goodbye.”

Lisa did not wait to hear Dan respond before she hung up the call.

Rachel, having awakened from her nap, was sitting at the breakfast nook in the kitchen, flipping through an old edition of the Hudson Times. When Lisa wandered in, Rachel glanced up and said, “Uh-oh. I know that look. Something’s got you mad.”

Lisa groaned. “Ugh. What tipped you off?”

Rachel smirked. “Yeah, see, there’s this vein that always pops out on your forehead whenever you blow a gasket,” she answered, motioning to her own head.

Grumbling, Lisa swiped a self-conscious hand over her face.

“Hey, it’s not like you get mad often, sis,” Rachel said, trying to lighten the mood. “It must be something big.”

Lisa plopped down wearily across from Rachel. “It’s Dan,” she began. “He’s gone and tried to clone one of my best racers—Fairfield Flyer—without even asking me, first.”

“Oh, wow. Is that even legal?” Rachel asked, folding the paper and putting it aside. “I’m not up on my horse cloning ethics.”

“It is legal,” Lisa said, “but it’s damned expensive, comes with a pile of risk factors, and the Racing Association has yet to accept clones in sanctioned races.”

“Didn’t I read something a couple years ago about clones being accepted for show jumping in the Olympics?” asked Rachel.

Lisa nodded. “Yes. The Fédération Equestre Internationale did announce clones could be entered for equestrian events. I still don’t know what Dan was thinking, though. Flyer is a racer, not a jumper, or dressage. It’s infuriating. And it’s not even about the ethics when it comes to cloning; it’s that Dan was hounding me for months to get Fairfield sold so we could get going on an operation out of Avignon.”

“Avignon?” repeated Rachel.

“Yes. You know I always wanted to retire to France, eventually.”

“Right...”

“Anyway,” Lisa continued, “I sold my share of the Dude Ranch back to Lou, and assumed those funds were going towards funding that Avignon operation. Obviously, Dan was funnelling all of it to help make the payments for the cloning procedure.” She let out another huff of frustration; Rachel eyed her with pity.

“C’mon, Lisa,” Rachel said after several moments of silence. “In the end, a horse is a horse, and we both know you love horses. When Rhapsody foals, you’re going to love that clone. So forget Dan, and focus on making sure Rhapsody stays healthy through the rest of the pregnancy.”

The words were like a thunderbolt, bringing a much-needed dose of reality. Lisa stared at Rachel for a few moments, speechless. “Are you sure you’re the younger sister, here?” she eventually asked with an affectionate smile and shake of her head. “When did you get to be so wise?”

“Oh, I have my moments,” Rachel answered airily.

“Well, I hope there’s more wisdom where that came from,” Lisa said, “because even though you’re right about loving it when it arrives, I get the feeling that clone is going to become more like a monkey on my back.”

Thanksgiving at Heartland was slightly less crowded than usual owing to the absences of Tim and Lou. Everyone was thankful for Jack’s surviving the heart attack and for Amy’s health and recovery after her recent scare with Zeus; Georgie was thankful in particular for her new family and for Phoenix.

At Fairfield, the celebration was slightly more subdued. Figuring this to be their final Thanksgiving together before the family farm passed into new hands, the Stillman sisters spent much of that holiday Monday* reminiscing about older, happier times, and some not-so-happy times, too.

“I used to love it when Aunt Evelyn would come to visit from wherever she had last been,” Lisa remarked as they sat together in the cozy living room, a roaring fire burning in the hearth.

“Remember her second husband?” Rachel snickered.

“Ah, yes. Uncle Merrill,” Lisa said. “With those massive sideburns we always wished he would shave off.”

“Where did she meet him, again?”

“Wales, I think,” Lisa replied. “But he was from Scotland.”

“He claimed he was some Scottish lord, right?” asked Rachel. “I seem to remember that.”

Lisa nodded seriously. “He apparently had the bank account to prove it, or so Aunt Evelyn told me.”

“Well, she was married to him the longest,” Rachel said.

“That’s true,” Lisa said, taking a sip of cider.

“Until he left her for a newer, younger model,” Rachel said.

“And she took him to the cleaners,” chortled Lisa. “Then promptly found herself another millionaire boyfriend.”

“That one didn’t last very long, did it?”

“Oh, a couple years, maybe? Then she had a few other gentlemen friends whose names I forget. Then she married Charles, the wealthy stockbroker from New York. They met on a cruise ship. Divorced him after five years.”

“Aunt Evelyn is addicted to men and to money,” Rachel said. “And I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

“Rachel, there is no nice way to call someone a gold digger,” Lisa said, a peal of laughter breaking forth.

“Ha! You said it; not me!”

“All right, Aunt Evelyn may have her... flaws... but she’s always been good to us,” Lisa said sincerely.

“Yeah... you’re right,” Rachel said. “Though you’re her favourite, you know.”

Lisa cocked her head and frowned at her sister, puzzled by this comment. “Naw. She totally spoiled us both. What d’you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing.” Rachel waved a hand dismissively. “I just got the feeling like she doted on you a little more. That’s all.”

“What? Why?”

Rachel stared at her older sister, considering for a few moments how to proceed. She blew out a breath and said, “Okay, remember that horse you had when we were kids? Silver?”

“Yes,” Lisa said, thinking of the dapple grey mare she got as a rescue. She put aside her mug, sensing Rachel was about to say something she had been wanting to say for a long time, but never had the chance to get it off her chest.

“I remember when Silver got sick a few years later,” Rachel said. “Dad didn’t think he could afford to pay for the surgery.”

“That’s right,” Lisa confirmed. “It was colic. Silver was getting old by that point, so Dad didn’t think the risk was worth it.”

“You know, I didn’t even have my own horse at the time, and Aunt Evelyn swooped in and said she’d pay for the surgery,” Rachel said, voice tainted with the slightest stain of bitterness. “You were seven when you got Silver. I remember, because I thought somehow that’s what I would get when I turned seven, too. Funny, isn’t it? We lived on a horse-breeding farm, and I didn’t get my own horse until I was ten.”

“Rachel, it’s a stupid question... did you even really want your own horse?” Lisa asked carefully.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Of course I wanted my own horse,” she said. “What little girl living in Hudson didn’t ‘want’ her own horse?”

“I know, but ‘wanting’ a horse isn’t the same as loving that horse when you finally get it, is it?”

Lisa thought back to when Rachel did receive her own horse the Christmas after she turned ten, a gift from Evelyn. In the beginning, the girl had been ecstatic, but the excitement had waned, and the horse was sometimes neglected.

“No, it isn’t the same thing,” admitted Rachel. “Look, I don’t mean to sound petty. At the time, I was jealous; I admit it. When I was younger, I thought Aunt Evelyn paying for Silver’s surgery when I didn’t even have my own horse meant she loved you more and was ignoring me.”

“I’m sorry, Rach,” Lisa said sincerely. “I had no idea you felt that way.”

“Like I said, I felt that way when I was younger. I thought having a horse would make me happy the way it seemed to make you happy; like it made other girls around town happy,” Rachel said. “It wasn’t until later I realised I wasn’t actually a horse-crazy girl like everyone else.”

“No, you were more boy-crazy,” Lisa said, a small smile twitching her lips.

“Ohhh, was I ever,” Rachel said, throwing back her head and casting her eyes to the ceiling.

“Do you ever regret leaving home when you did?” Lisa queried. “I mean, do you ever wish you had waited until you were a little more settled? Aunt Evelyn was willing to pay for your post-secondary education anywhere in the world like she did for me, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. And I keep saying that the timing was probably wrong,” Rachel said. “But I always come back to Ben. He’s the reason I don’t have regrets about that. I love my son more than my own life, Lisa. If I do regret anything is that his childhood probably wasn’t as happy as it could have been because of my stupid relationship mistakes.”

“Well, from what I can see, he’s grown into a fine young man, Rachel,” Lisa said, thinking of the rough patch Ben went through during Rachel’s train wreck of a divorce. “He’s learned some valuable life lessons and he’s working hard now to achieve his goals.”

“I admit I’m proud of him,” Rachel said with a smile. “I’m sorry again for dumping him on you—”

“Oh, stop!” Lisa put up a hand. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. Even though I could have done a better job when he was here, it made me realise raising a child isn’t a cakewalk.”

“No, but it is worth it,” Rachel said. “I look at Ben, and I think at least I did something right in the world.”

“Yeah...” Lisa said softly.

“He did appreciate his time here, Lisa,” Rachel said, getting an inkling of where Lisa’s thoughts might have carried her at that moment.

“I hope so,” Lisa uttered. “Though somehow, I think I acted a little more like Aunt Evelyn: dropping expensive gifts instead of making any meaningful impact on his life that would actually matter.”

“I don’t see it that way at all,” Rachel countered. “You give from the heart, Lisa. You’ve always been the generous type. And with Fairfield’s success came bigger ways to show that generosity. To be honest, I was a bit jealous of your giving nature, too.”

“And if I’m going to be honest, I was a bit jealous of you,” Lisa said seriously.

“Of me?” Rachel said, clearly shocked. “Whatever for?”

“You left home. Had a child. You... didn’t have the weight of responsibility for Fairfield that I had,” Lisa admitted. “I have loved building up the business into the success it is today, but I also thought kids would naturally come along when I was married to Dan. When that didn’t happen, I thought about you and how easy it seemed for you.”

“It wasn’t easy at all, especially when Gary walked out on us,” stated Rachel emphatically. “And I thought I’d have more kids too, when the ex-who-shall-not-be-named came into the picture and seemed like he’d be a great step-father to Ben. We all know how that turned out.”

Lisa bobbed her head slowly, knowing no further words were needed on the subject of the breakup of Rachel’s marriage.

At length, Rachel murmured: “I’m glad I came out here one last time. There was a time I couldn’t wait to leave; relieved you were the older daughter that Dad would look to for running the business. I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated how much of a burden you’ve shouldered.”

“We’ve both had our burdens and hardships,” Lisa said, looking at the glowing embers in the fireplace.

“I mean it, Lisa,” Rachel insisted. “Thank you for being there for Dad, and for running Fairfield all these years. It’s just a shame he didn’t live long enough to see the success it’s become.”

“A success that’s now coming to a close,” Lisa said quietly. “When I pick up stakes and move to Avignon, it’s going to be a whole new business.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Rachel commented. “You haven’t heard from Jack. You said it yourself that it’s time to make a fresh start.”

“I know,” Lisa said. “And you’re right. But being here in Hudson, well, it’s brought back a lot of memories with him. Good memories. It hurts to finally realise that there won’t be any more of those.”

“Well, who knows? Maybe you’ll meet a fine French gentleman in Avignon,” Rachel said with a mirthful chuckle.

“Oh, no! The last thing I need is to turn into Aunt Evelyn,” Lisa scoffed, chagrined at her sister’s comment. Her thoughts suddenly took her to Toulon and the foul experience she had with Alphonse. It struck her his marriage to the young Audrey had come and gone that spring, and their baby was probably due any time. I sure dodged a bullet with that one, she decided, even if my “friends” thought we would make a good match.

“You could never be like Aunt Evelyn,” Rachel said. “You’re not a gold-digger, and the money you’ve made came through hard work. And the money doesn’t really matter to you, either, does it?”

“I won’t lie,” Lisa replied. “The money matters, because I got to do things and go places I always dreamed of doing and seeing when I was a kid. But what’s money if you don’t have people you love to share it with?”

Rachel looked at her sister with sympathy. “You really did love him, didn’t you?”

Lisa returned Rachel’s glance. “With every fiber of my being. My whole world stopped when Lou told me about his heart attack. Nothing mattered after nearly losing him like that. I just wish I had the chance to tell him so.”

“Look, it’s not my place to tell you what to do or what not to do, Lis,” Rachel said. “But you’re here in Hudson now, and he’s here. This could be your last chance to tell him.”

A slight shiver ran down Lisa’s spine at the notion of facing Jack and baring her heart as she had tried so many months ago, when she made the horrible mistake of renting the hospital bed for him. “I already squandered that ‘last chance’, Rach,” Lisa said sadly. “It’ll take a miracle to convince Jack to see me again. I blew it, and now I’m paying the price.”

Thanksgiving dishes were washed and put away; night checks on the horses were finished; everyone was tucked away in bed. Jack, however, lingered by himself in the living room before the fire, sipping on a hot toddy. There was indeed much to be thankful for, he knew, particularly when it came to his own life. There’s much to regret, too, he thought, watching as the flames licked at the seasoned logs. While life moved on, his heart still pined for her. He was still stuck in a place of uncertainty and inaction; of wanting to reach out and of pulling back again. It’s been ten months. Lisa has moved on, surely. It would be wrong of me to call her now, after all that’s gone on between us, and mess up whatever it is she has going. I should be thankful we had whatever it is we had and let her go. With that, Jack pulled himself up from the couch, doused the fire, and crept into his bedroom. As he closed his eyes, his last thought before falling asleep was that given his angry parting words with Lisa, spoken in the heat of the moment, he was undeserving of a second chance with her. Nothing will ever bring us back together; that’s a bridge too far.

*To my non-Canadian readers: Thanksgiving in Canada is celebrated on the 2nd Monday of October.

TBC

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3packsfrom21 · 5 years

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Ma Belle France - Part 1

I wrote most of this a week ago, but alas, I’m only posting it now. Enjoy.

I’m beginning to realize that bus time is blog time. Thus, as we embark on this 7 hour bus ride (followed by a 9 hour layover and then another 8 hour bus ride), taking us from Nancy in Northern France to Barcelona, I’ll give another brief update on our travels.

We’ve been in France for 10 days now. We began our time by flying into Paris. Our first night was far from romantic - we spent it on an icy marble floor in the airport. Dear airports everywhere: please, PLEASE provide a carpeted space for travelers. As much as we love the comfort of cold, hard rock, we would still prefer carpets, even with the additional dirt and bacteria they may hold. What’s worse is that the room was pumped full of AC. Jessica’s lips were positively blue by the next morning. The experience was even more fun because at this point I could no longer walk on my left leg. Lynece mentions why in the last post, if you’re unsure. Turns out you need to give advanced notice in order to acquire an airport wheelchair, but Kiana and Lynece sure had fun giving me piggy-back rides. I’m certain that if Lynece was writing this, there would be ample space dedicated to lamenting this entire airport experience, complete with many pronounced exaggerations, but I’ll leave it here.

The next morning saw many fun adventures: the small town Alberta girls learned how to call an Uber (thank you Jessica for your patience in teaching us); we learned that our AirBnB was a 45 minute walk from the nearest metro station (which ordinarily would’ve been fine, but my leg complicated matters a tad); and most importantly, we took a nap. Then, after much deliberation and a thorough massage on my leg (which helped), we called another Uber and headed for the city centre. Our day in Paris was dreamy. To cut the walking, we rode electric scooters around. I would now say that this is the best way to see Paris. There’s nothing quite like scooting along past the architecture and grandeur of Paris - the Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Alexandre III bridge, the Louvre - with the wind in you hair and the river by your side. This all may sound a little romantic. It was.

The next day (September 4), we took an eight hour bus ride to Strasbourg. We ended up spending 6 days in Strasbourg; we couldn’t get enough! The city holds twice the population of Red Deer, but is only a bit larger in size. It is right on the German border. In fact, you can take the tram into Kehl, the neighbouring city in Germany. Some of the most memorable moments spent here, for me, involve the street musicians playing anything from horns to violins to the cello; the tiny, winding streets; the fresh pastries in the morning; the various different fresh cheeses that we bought from the market; the thrift store, full of the funkiest colors and patterns (the limited backpack space strikes again and I’m still sad), and so on. But I can’t fit it all into a list.

The second day there, we went to see the famed Notre Dame de Strasbourg cathedral. We knew nothing of what to expect. We took the tram, were walking along the adorable French/German style streets; we rounded a corner and were suddenly met with the most gargantuan, astounding, colossal (pulling all the stops on the adjectives here) superstructure. A sight that quite literally makes you gasp, as you look up, up, up, at the dark brown coloured, sculpture clad, monstrosity (in a good way). It is a gothic cathedral, one of the few early gothic cathedrals with only one spire. We spent a while there - the time frame changes depending on who you ask. The story goes like this. When we walked in and began to admire the front of the cathedral, we noticed Jessica was missing. Little did we know at the time, that she had gone ahead at her own pace, unsure of where we went. She completed her tour of the entire cathedral, only to return to the doors to find the three of us still standing there, admiring the front of the church. We had yet to move. You see, Jessica appreciates cathedrals like an ordinary human; Kiana, however, loves cathedrals like a mother loves her children. So, of course, our tour of the cathedral (Jessica’s now second tour) was marked by many long pauses and ponderings. Jessica found a seat at some point and began to wait. It got worse when Kiana discovered that the earliest portion of the cathedral was built in 1190. Jessica claims that Kiana stood in the same square foot area for twenty minutes, rotating with wide eyes and mouthing “1190!” Thus, while Kiana argues that we were there for around 45 minute to 1 hour, Jessica is certain that it was at least 2 hours. The important part, I suppose, is that we did eventually manage to leave. It was a close one.

The rest of our time in Strasbourg was largely spent at a relaxed pace. We explored the streets, took the tram into Germany to do some shopping (this is much more in line with Jessica’s preferences - we had to apologize for the cathedral incident somehow), spent time in cafes and in our lovely French-style apartment. We did laundry (this was a remarkable event) and visited the palace. Altogether a laid-back approach to the city.

Other than that, I can tell you of one other marked experience: the day of the unfortunate meal. In our time in Strasbourg, we passed by one particular restaurant that seemed to be always packed with people. So, we decided we would try and eat there for our final dinner in the city. In order to fit it into our budget, however, we knew that we would need to eat very little else all day. And so, the day came. We had some croissants and bread for breakfast, a very disappointing milkshake for lunch, and we anticipated supper with hopeful hearts. We wore the new shirts and fun earrings we’d bought in Germany (feeling very dressed up). At the restaurant, we admired the quaint French atmosphere. Then, we looked at the menu and were surprised to find that all of the food was between 5 and 7 euro - pretty cheap for the area. But not to worry, we soon noticed a different menu posted on the wall, with prices still cheaper than, but more closely aligned with, what we’d anticipated (around 10 euro). When trying to order, we were informed that the wall menu didn’t open until 6:00p.m. So we waited the 5 minutes (literally 5 minutes) to order, feeling affirmed that we must be ordering off of the dinner menu, rather than the paper-copy lunch menus. We each ordered a dinner item (admittedly, we had very little idea what we were ordering, even with our proficient French) and got a dish off of the lunch menu to share.

The shared lunch dish came rather quickly. A warmed piece of bread with thick pieces of unmelted Brie on top, sprinkled with walnuts and drizzled with honey. Delicious, but we were so glad that we hadn’t relied on the lunch menu for our dinner! We were hungry. We then braced ourselves for a wait. We were the first ones to order dinner so the wait would likely be a bit longer. Surprisingly, not more than 6 minutes later, two waiters came carrying four plates. We thought, “oh good, how efficient!” Then they put the plates down. We each had one piece of toasted bread, cut in half, with melted cheese on top. The toppings varied slightly - Lynece had one piece of bacon (she wanted to make sure it was clear that it was one and only one piece) in her melted cheese and Kiana and I had a sprinkling of walnut pieces and a drizzle of honey. Jessica even had some bruschetta on top. But that was it. A piece of toast. With melted cheese on top. We wondered if they’d made a mistake, but remembered that they’d said the names of the dishes as they sat them down, and they were all correct. So, we sat there, trying to enjoy the “meal” we’d fasted for, wondering what the difference was between the lunch menu items and the dinner menu items (besides the price). To put it into perspective, we spent about 85 dollars on 5 pieces of toast and 4 beer. We finally determined that the cheese we ate must’ve been gleaned from the nomadic cows of the Amazonian rainforest. Regardless, the evening was a rather large disappointment. Fortunately, we were able to rectify the situation at our next destination.

On September 10, we caught a bus at 1:30 in the afternoon for Nancy, in order to meet up with one of Kiana’s friends that she met through Champfleuri (Capernwray). It was lovely to be able to stay with Marie and her husband Josue for a few days. On the 11th, we went with Marie to an afterschool program (of sorts) for children. We played games with the kids, ages ranging from 4 to 12. Later in the evening, we made up for the disastrous Strasbourg meal with a raclette dinner. Raclette is a French dish where you dip delicious meats and potatoes in various different melted cheese fondue-type dishes. It is heaven. We had enough left over to feed all three of us again, and we stuffed ourselves pretty-well to the brim. We then explored Place Stanislas (a famous square in Nancy), all lit up at night, before returning to Marie’s. To sum it up, our time in Nancy was a taste of true French living. We are so grateful to Marie and Josue for opening their home to us - this is truly the best way to travel.

And now (September 12), here we are (thankfully - we almost missed our bus this morning), on our way to a sunnier and hotter Spain. We plan on being in Spain for around two weeks, before returning to see Southern France. Jessica will be leaving us on the 18th, sadly! She’s been a great addition to our traveling team, often much more level-headed than we. We’ll miss her moments of sass.

------

As an aside, I think it is worth noting that my leg is feeling much better! Yay for being able to walk places. Thank you to those of you who kept me (and all of us) in your prayers. We appreciate it more than you know.

You can expect a post about Spain coming in the next few weeks. Also, in response to the many inquiries, we will post pictures on Facebook at some point soon! We aren’t exactly the most attached to social media - it is more labor than love. It is also possible that we may be able to coerce Kiana into writing something on here at some point. She might be finished by next year this time. ;) Thanks for reading!

Cheers // Janae

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valkyrieofsmut · 5 years

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Engel de la Gargouille Section 1 part 1

Engel de la Gargouille (Gargoyle’s Angel)

Kurt Wagner/ Nightcrawler x Female OC

Types: Smut, Angst, Mutual pining, Pregnancy, Romance, Love, Insecurity, Long as hell…

Overall series warnings: Smut, bit of violence, swearing, German (translations provided, but I have bad grammar… Sorry native speakers…) (Will be added as they come up) Chapter warnings will be added individually as well.

A/n- Most tags connected to child abuse, such as physical abuse, mental abuse, and grooming.

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Story!

The scene of a family dinner is the same in a lot of countries, the room may be different, the table, the chairs, the size, what is for the dinner itself, and what time it is happening, but most agree that being together is the important part, and that the children attending are polite and eat their dinner so that there is no whining about being hungry afterward.

The Williams house was large, three stories tall, the first floor filled with rooms for parties, relaxing, and, of course, any amenities that one would need for a family in a high class position in France. The second floor, except for one room that was Mr. Williams’s office, was dedicated to the woman of the house; she had a large room just for her wardrobe, and an attached runway and photo studio for when she felt the urge to flaunt her beauty, which she did often, as well as a massage room, a ballet barre and mirrored wall for dance practice and a film room fit with a screen across one wall. The third floor held the room she shared with her husband, on occasion, another room she slept in often, two guest rooms, and the large room that the youngest member of the household, Angeline, had been in since she was born.

At this household’s dinner table, Mr. Williams, a brunette American man, ate while talking about his day to his wife, Mrs. Delon, as she had kept her maiden name, a French woman who had the looks of a supermodel with bright, shining, golden blond hair and bright, though calculating, blue eyes, and ate stiffly, silent, and Angeline, a small version of her mother with shining blond hair and a child's innocent, bright blue eyes with irises that seemed bigger than they should be, kicked her four year old feet, jovally eating the meal on her plate.

“It’s yummy, papa,” she said brightly, smiling at Mr. Williams, her French tinged English crossing the table to him.

“Angeline,” snipped her mother. “Do not kick your feet so.”

Angeline looked up with her bright eyes and stopped her feet. “Oui, mama.”

Mrs. Delon’s fingers snapped against the edge of the table. “English, Angeline. We are sophisticated here.”

“Yes, mama.” A few minutes later, Angeline’s feet had started kicking again, as a child’s mind often forgets and starts doing what they feel.

“Angeline.” The young girl looked up at her mother. “Sit still and poised. Eat slowly and gracefully.”

“Yes, mama,” Angeline answered, trying to act as her mother told her.

Of course, being four, she was soon eating happily, her feet swinging again.

“Angeline!” Her mother quietly exclaimed. She looked guiltily up at her and her mother began roughly wiping her face. “Stop making such a mess! Behave! And be still!”

“But mama-” Angeline stopped, silent as a slap met her cheek. She looked wide eyed up at the woman next to her.

“Do not talk back, Angeline.” Tears started welling in her eyes in reaction to the stinging in her cheek. “No crying, Angeline,” her mother ordered. Of course, being four, she couldn’t stop the tears once they started. But that just earned another stroke to her cheek. “Do not disobey me, Angeline!”

“Honey, she’s just a child-” Mr. Williams tried to stand up for her, but was cut off by his wife.

“My child, and I will discipline her as I see fit!”

This may have been the first time she’d been slapped by her mother, but it would certainly not be the last.

There were many things she didn’t understand, and when she asked about them, she was told to be pretty and silent. If she spoke again, a slap would fall her way.

She quickly learned a dodging skill, but she just as quickly learned that if she used that skill, it tripled her punishment.

Mr. Williams worked, and Mrs. Delon didn’t, or, it didn’t seem that she did to Angeline. She slept late and woke to spend hours on her hair, makeup, and clothes, before taking Angeline out to travel around with her.

They were strange places, with lots of other children in waiting rooms, and sometimes she went in to meet people and speak to them. If she spoke too enthusiastically, or about something her mother didn’t prompt her on, she would see a cloud cross her mother’s eyes, and knew a slap and reprimand were waiting for her in the car.

She didn’t know what this was, but thought it was something that was just what everyone did, after all, the other kids in the waiting room were her age, and she had no concept of how many kids there were in the world; this could be all of them, for all she knew!

Soon after Angeline’s fifth birthday, things started to change, though it was a strange change to her. She was to wake up and go to the room with the mirrored wall and barre and practice ballet moves until her mother stopped her, sometimes she would be there for hours.

After that, she had singing lessons, though her voice was still not developed enough to sing in any real range.

After that, her mother told her that she would be getting another class, one taught by her.

Angeline was intrigued, after all, her mother was beautiful, knew both English and French, and could drive, but other than that, she hadn’t seen any special skills.

“Stand here,” her mother told her, positioning her in front of the mirrored wall. “Smile.” Angeline looked at her in question, but her face was jerked back to the mirror. “Do not look at me, do what I said.” Angeline smiled, a little crooked, and her mother squished her face, moving it into position. “Like this.” The smile fell, and her mother demanded again, “smile.”

She tried to smile again, but it was crooked again.

Her mother’s hand connected with her cheek, and she sniffed. “Stop it, smile!” Her mother demanded.

She tried, and was slapped again as it wasn't perfect. Her cheek was starting to get red, as her mother had slapped her fifteen times in as many minutes. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her mother slapped her again.

“No crying! You'll make your eyes red!” Angeline tried to stop, sniffling a little. “No sniffing either!” Her mother demanded. “You have to learn how to behave properly.”

After the two hour long “class" that left her cheeks stinging, Angeline walked down the hall, making her way to the entertainment room. Her stepfather was there, sitting in a chair watching the tv in English, because, as Angeline had found out, he didn't know French, despite trying to learn for years.

“Hello, Angeline,” he greeted with a smile. “What's wrong, angel?” He asked to her teary eyes.

“Papa, mama is being mean to me.”

He held out his arms and she went to him, climbing onto his lap and laying against his chest. “Angeline, I know it seems like your mama is being mean, I know she's been a little strict for your age, but, chère, she is just trying to do the best she can to give you a good life, to prepare you for what is in the future.” Angeline cuddled against him, taking comfort in his warmth. “I know it's hard, but, try to do what your mama says, ok angel?”

“Ok, papa.”

Clicking footsteps echoed down the hall as Angeline’s mother made her way to the entertainment room. “What is this?” She demanded. Angeline sat up, and both of them looked at the woman in the doorway in confusion. “Why is she on your lap?” Her mother demanded, and Angeline looked up at the only man she'd ever known as a father, wondering what was happening.

Her mother stormed across the room to her, her tall, strappy heels clacking across the floor, sounding like an animal with their claws out racing to them. She stopped in front of the chair, grabbing Angeline's arm and ripping her away, sending her tumbling to the floor.

“Honey, I don't know what you're talking about,” Mr. Williams protested.

Angeline looked up from where she was laying on the floor to where her mother towered over her, facing off with her stepfather.

“You are interested in her body!”

“Love, please don't say such things! She is just a baby!”

Her mother huffed and cursed at him in French. “You were going to treat her like one of your whores, use her body!”

“Never! I would never do anything to her, I love her like my own daughter- I have always been faithful to you!”

Angeline knew this, the words that she was saying, the way she was yelling at him, she had heard it before, even if she didn't know what all of the words, like whore, meant, and it almost always ended with “get out of my house!” and him apologizing for something.

This time, though, it was her fault. She had done something to make her mother angry at him. She didn't know what it was, but she could see the sad look on his face, and it made her feel bad to know that she had done something that hurt him; he was always nice to her, always had a hug or cuddle for her when she was sad, always snuck her treats when her mother wasn't looking, never yelled at her or told her to go away.

Angeline climbed up from the floor, standing and nervously twisting her hands. “I- I'm sorry mama… please don't be mad at papa…”

Her mother turned on her, and Angeline stepped back in fear at the look on her face. “Be a good girl and be silent! Don't you want your mama to love you?”

“Yes, mama,” Angeline told her.

“Then do what I say!”

Angeline stepped back, toward the door, afraid that she didn't understand what was happening. Tears started welling in her eyes, spilling over and rolling down her cheeks. “I'm sorry, papa,” she whispered.

Her mother glared at her. “Stop crying, Angeline, right this instant!”

Angeline tried, but five was no better an age than four for controlling her tears.

Her mother came toward her, not the hurried stampede from earlier, but a calm walk, and she thought she might be coming closer to comfort her, except it was just a hopeful thought her young mind had, because, of course, what came was a slap.

... ... ...

By the time she was seven, Angeline had a very full day.

She went to a school that taught acting and various other talents. She took piano, singing lessons, ballet, jazz dance, tap dance, ballroom dance, yoga, and the acting classes.

The dance classes were on different days, but yoga, piano and singing were every day, and the acting was an every day “after school" program. She had to guess, but it made sense to her that the lessons in the morning were the school, if the acting was after school.

For the end of term ballet performance, the teacher asked the kids to bring in photos of themselves as babies, so Angeline went to her mother where she was sitting at her vanity in the room containing her wardrobe, combing through her long, perfect, golden hair.

Angeline ran her fingers through her own long blond locks and thought of how much they looked like her mother’s. “Mama,” she started hesitantly.

“Yes, Angeline?”

Angeline took a breath and stepped forward. “Madam DuPont told us to bring in pictures of when we were babies…”

Her mother raised one fine brow over her blue eye and turned to her. “For what?”

“For the program for the recital,” Angeline told her.

Her mother nodded and stood, walking out of the room and making her way down to the entertainment room where her stepfather was sitting, reading a book. Angeline followed, smiling and greeting him as she raced to the arm of his chair.

“Hi, papa!”

He smiled back, lowering the book. “Bonjour.”

She giggled at his terrible accent. “You've been practicing,” She noted.He nodded and looked up as her mother laid a photo album on his lap. A few photos fluttered to the floor, and she picked them up.

“Where are the newborn glamour shots,” her mother asked, or more accurately, demanded.

Her stepfather turned through the album, stopping on a page, taking the pictures Angeline handed him. Angeline noticed a picture that she had missed, and picked it up, looking at it. It was her mother, holding her, and she had gauze around her hands. “What happened in this one?” She asked.

Her mother looked at it and her expression grew irritated. “I thought I told you to throw all of those away,” she snipped.

Angeline's stepfather looked down at her and smiled. “Well, when you were born,” he took her hand and pressed her two middle fingers together. “Your fingers were like this.”

Angeline looked down at her hand in confusion. “But then I opened my hand?” She asked, spreading her fingers apart.

He shook his head. “No, the skin around your fingers was connected, so that you couldn't open them.” He pressed her fingers back together.

“What happened to them?”

“You were born like that,” he answered. “So we had a surgeon operate on them and cut them apart.”

Angeline stared down at her hand for a moment before looking up at her mother. “Were your hands like that, too?”

A sneer crossed her mother's face before she adjusted her expression to one of uncaring beauty. “They certainly were not.”

Angeline looked to her stepfather. “Did I get it from you?”

He looked a little uneasy, and her mother snapped, “he is not your father! You did not get anything from him!”

Angeline blinked up at her mother. Her papa wasn't her father? How could that be? “What do you mean?” She asked.

“Don't ask stupid questions,” her mother told her, and if she'd learned anything, any question was a stupid question to her.

“But…”

Her mother's palm found her cheek. “Don't argue with me.”

Angeline held her cheek, but didn't say anything for a moment. “I'm sorry, mama… I was just wondering who my father was if it isn't papa…”

Her mother huffed and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to her room.

Angeline laid on her bed, coloring in the coloring book she had full of ballerinas and music, thinking about what her mother had said.

If her papa wasn't her father, who was? And had he had his fingers together like she had?

She wondered about it for weeks, and asked her stepfather, but he didn't know; he'd met and fallen in love with her mother after she was already pregnant, but before she'd given birth.

As her mother drove her home from classes one day, she asked, quietly breaking the silence. “Mama, who is my father?”

“Merde, Angeline, will you not let this go?!”

“I just want to know-" She was cut off by a slap to her cheek.

“He was gargouille.”

“A gargouille? Mama! You were tricked by a gargouille glamour?” She whined at the outrageous thought.

Gargoyles were just myths, weren't they? That's what her stepfather had said when she told him one of the stories the other kids in her dance class had told them, and he was a very smart man.

“Silence!” Her mother told her as another slap landed on her cheek.

... ... ...

By the time Angeline was eight, she was used to having a lot of classes throughout the day, and seeing some of the kids for only the after school parts.

In her acting class, she ran up to Ellie, one of the girls who shared her tap class as well, and waved enthusiastically. “Are you ok? You weren't in tap yesterday.”

“Well, yeah, because I was at school,” Ellie told her. She spoke in a very direct and informal way, so Angeline sometimes had trouble telling if she was being rude or not, but when she watched American movies with her stepfather, she recognised that this manner of speaking was meant to make the characters look cool, so she supposed that could be the case.

Angeline looked at her in confusion. “Isn't this school?”

Ellie looked at her like she was stupid, and Angeline felt stupid for asking. “Real school, where you learn math, and French, and history.”

Angeline blushed, but didn't say anything else.

That evening as her mother drove her home, she asked, “Mama, why am I not in real school?”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “You are in school, Angeline.”

“But, I don't learn math or French or history there,” she insisted. “You learn those at real school.”

“Did one if those stupid little girls tell you that? She needs those classes because she is not going to be famous. You are going to be famous, so you don't need those.”

“I am?”

“Of course, what do you think I have been training you for?”

Angeline didn't say anything.

“Smile,” her mother demanded, and she did.

“Shouldn't I learn something else, too?”

“No.”

Angeline was silent for another moment as her mother made her smile again, and a moment after. “C-couldn't I go to school with my friends?” She asked quietly.

Her mother shot a glare at her. “What?” She demanded.

“I would do both! I could do it, I promise! I could still be famous if I go to school! Please!” She begged quickly, trying to make her case before her mother told her to shut up.

She was silenced by rapid slaps to her face. “You ungrateful little brat! How dare you ask for things you don't need! I have devoted years of my life, and thousands of dollars to make you famous, already!” Her mother yelled at her.

“I'm sorry mama,” Angeline cried out as she turned away, remembering that if she tried to block or defend herself, she would be hit more.

Day time classes started changing for Angeline; instead of waking up and going to dance classes, followed by the after school classes, she spent time with her mother, “learning things they don't offer classes in", then going to her vocal lessons, and acting classes.

Angeline woke up and got ready for the day, washing her face, brushing her teeth, all of the normal things she did, then went to the chair by her closet, looking at the new clothes her mother had laid out for her and pulled on the newest accessory to enter her bedroom; a bra.

She had started wearing them only a few months before, shortly after her ninth birthday, and was just getting the hang of putting it on quickly and easily. After her bra, she pulled on her panties and the skirt on the chair, pulling her shirt on as she turned to her large standing mirror.

The shirt was tight, hugging her bra and hovering above her belly button, while the skirt hung above her knees and hugged her hips. She looked at her reflection in confusion, pulling at the clothes. Had her mother gotten her the wrong size?

Her mother opened the door behind her and walked closer, giving her an approving look. “Angeline, we are going to an audition today.”

Angeline looked up at her. “Are my clothes too small, mama?”

“No, they are just fine,” her mother said.

Angeline felt wrong, but if her mama said so…

Her mother did her hair and put makeup on her.

For the first time since she could remember, it was not a performance, but her mother put a full set of makeup on her instead of just the little perfecting base she usually put on her. Her eyes looked huge, her lips looked lush, like one of the models on magazines or the television.

They drove for a while, arriving at their destination and parking before waiting in a room with other children.

Her mother told her to sit in a chair, and she did, watching as she went to the receptionist and talked to her. She waited silently, watching the other children play and talk excitedly to their parents.

Finally, she was called in.

She performed for the man behind the desk, doing as her mother directed, but he didn’t look satisfied. Her mother looked a little worried as she glanced down at her before back to the man.

“Take off your shirt,” her mother’s voice told her.

She felt her lip tremble, not sure what was about to be expected of her, and the man in front of her looked appalled.

“Madam! She is a child! Just what are you expecting her to do!” He demanded.

“Oh, but doesn’t she look beautiful?” Her mother asked.

“She is nine years old!”

“Forget that, just look at her,” her mother urged. “She looks older, doesn’t she? Sixteen at least."

“She is still nine!”

Her mother changed gears, pushing her out into the hall. “Wait for me out here,” she ordered.

... ... ...

“Move your head like this,” her mother demonstrated.

Angeline did, imitating her near perfectly after hours of practicing.

“Good,” her mother told her, and she ate up the compliment, nearly smiling, but remembering that it would ruin the expression she’d been practicing. “Now, our next lesson.” Her mother pulled a shiny magazine out of a brown paper bag.

Angeline’s eyes widened at the pictures; they were women, in very little clothing, or none at all, their chests and between their legs hidden by stars and shapes with words in them.

Her mother opened the magazine and Angeline saw a woman, looking over her shoulder, a pair of underwear nearly disappearing between her buttcheeks, the side of her breast showing, one hand pulling her hair out of the way so you could see her figure, and the other was groping over her nipple.

“Try this pose,” her mother instructed.

Angeline looked up at her mother in surprise, searching for an explanation, but found none. “Mama, is this for eleven year olds?” She asked uncertainly.

Anger filled her mother’s eyes. “Now.”

Instead of answering, Angeline moved, trying to copy the pose.

Her mother looker her over, but seemed satisfied enough. “That one is rather easy. Now, this one.” She opened the magazine to another page where a woman was on her hands and knees, looking like she was crawling across the floor, one hand up.

Angeline kneeled down and copied the pose, enough that her mother was satisfied.

“That one is easy, too. Here is a harder one.” She showed her the next photo.

The woman in the photo was crouching, her panties held apart between her knees, with her arms over her head, her hands pressing against the wall behind her.

Angeline blushed; all of the woman’s private parts were showing.

“Angeline, now,” her mother’s voice broke through her daze. She moved to the wall and crouched, putting her hands the same, but she felt like she was going to fall over, so she adjusted herself. “Open your knees more. And your elbows.” Angeline tried, but nearly fell over. Her mother went to her dresser and pulled out a pair of her panties. “Put these on over your clothes. Now, again, this time, use the panties to steady yourself,” her mother instructed. “Like she is doing in the picture.”

Angeline felt weird doing this, strange, and uncomfortable. She could understand the other two; maybe she would need those poses for something innocent, but those were the only photos her mother could get of them, but this one…

When would she ever need to have her underwear around her knees that would be innocent?

After the hours long lesson, her mother put the magazine back in the brown bag and took out another one. “Now, we will practice these expressions.”

Angeline looked at the magazine and saw that the pictures were the same kind, but that you could see all of the alluring faces on the women.

These were faces that adult women were making, not children, like her. They were things for adults, not for her, not for girls her age.

She looked back at her mother. “I- maybe-” She stopped as the darkness of anger clouded her mother’s eyes.

“Don’t you want to make your mama happy?”

Angeline hesitated. “Yes, mama…”

“Don’t you want your mama to love you?”

“Yes, mama.”

“Then do as I say. I’m teaching you this to help you, Angeline.”

“Yes, mama,” she murmured.

“You are lucky; I did not have anyone to teach me these things, I had to learn on my own, at a much older age. If I had started as young, I may have reached even greater heights.”

Her mother was going on and on, telling her she was lucky to have her, but Angeline just felt yucky inside.

“Now, do as your mama says.”

“Yes, mama,” Angeline whispered.

... ... ...

A new boy had joined Angeline’s acting class, and she had noticed that her stomach felt funny when she saw him, like butterflies were flapping around inside.

Angeline’s mother came to pick her up from her classes, and saw her standing next to the boy, tilting her head like she had taught her.

“Angeline.”

Angeline looked up to see her mother standing above her. “Hello, mama.”

Angeline’s mother took her arm and roughly pulled her to the car.

“Mama?” She asked as she followed.

When they had gotten in, and the doors had closed, her mother slapped her. “You are never to let any boy touch you.”

“Mama, I thought you taught me that to use it? To get boys to pay attention to me?”

Her mother slapped her, again and again, making her cringe and close her eyes, turning away from the blows as she huddled down to make herself a smaller target.

“You are only to use it when I say, on who I say!”

“Y-yes, mama,” she tried to placate.

“Do you understand, Angeline? There is a time and a place, and it is when and where I say, and only to who I say!”

“Yes, mama!” She cried, trying to keep the tears away so she didn’t get hit for that as well.

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past---caring · 7 years

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In London’s Gordon Square there now stands a statue dedicated to a former resident. This person was a spy ,but also an Indian princess, an author, a musician, a pacifist and Muslim who believed in approaching the world with love and tolerance. Noor-un-Nisa Inayat Khan was her name. Remember it.

Beginnings

Noor’s father Hazrat was an Indian Sufi mystic and musician while her mother Ora was American. During a stay in Paris he performed with Mati Hari and on an American tour he would meet Noor's mother. Hazrat was not just a musician ,but a Sufi teacher who created ‘The Western Order of Sufism’ in the year of Noor’s birth. It preached messages of divine unity(Tawhid) and focused on ideas like love and beauty. He also believed in spirituality being individualistic. Ideas that would influence his daughter. Noor was born during her parents residence in Moscow in January of 1914.The name she was given ‘Noor-Un-Nisa’ meant ‘Light of womanhood’. Throughout her short life Noor would embody this strongly by acting as light for many she encountered . Her royal ancestry would also influence her. Those like Khan’s 18th century ancestor Tipu Sultan who had stood defiant against the British in his kingdom showed a contrasting ideology to her religious one. The family lived happily in Russia until political events there and the war in France brought them to England. While there Hazrat played for the visiting Ghandi , leaving him in tears , and grew his Sufi order. After the war the growing family went back to Paris.The years growing up here were some of Noor’s happiest. Babulis(Father’s daughter) was the nickname given to her by him and her nanny. In 1926 tragedy struck when her father died on a visit to India. The order's member’s helped them financially but the death made her mother severely depressed. Noor had to learn the concept of duty young as this resulted in her being her sibling’s guardians most of the time. Noor was also extremely academic. She studied at the Ecole Normale de Musique in Paris , did French, German and Spanish academically and received a degree in Child Psychology at the Sorbonne.She graduated and became a writer working primarily on books for children such as one called Jakata tales.At the time she also fell in love with a young Jewish man which meet with disapproval from her family due to class and only ended due to the war.

War

The outbreak of war brought out another side to Noor and changed her. Her religion ,pacifism and father’s teachings meant she was deeply troubled by the conflict. Germany’s aggression , however , made her decide she needed to help in the fight against the Nazi’s as this was a war hurting innocents. She and her sister worked as nurses until the conflict forced the family to go to England. Khan decided to join the war effort again through entering the WAAF. Her fluency in multiple languages and qualifications helped her rise through the ranks of it and she began to take lessons in signalling. Near the end of 1942 she was called to the War office for a meeting without the knowledge she was being called by the SOE who saw extreme potential and promise in her as an operative. Noor had her meeting with Captain Jepson. As well as being the recruiter for the French section of the SOE he was also a famous author and screenwriter. During the meeting they bonded over writing. Jepson then mentioned how important wireless operators were in the field to help the resistance. He told Noor honestly that the life span of a wireless operator in France could barely be measured in months and that if she was captured she could expect imprisonment and execution. As a women she wouldn’t be protected like POWs thus making execution and similar highly possible upon capture. Khan was unsure and told him she was willing to do it , but the effect it could have on her mother worried her.A few days later she wrote to Jepson saying she accepted as family ties were petty when the winning of the war was at stake.She had one final discussion with him as per usual of a recruit regarding her loyalty.She told Jepson that she believed in Indian independence and if she was forced to choice between India and Britain she would chose the former. Her brother Vilavat later said she would have likely aided in the fight for this independence if she had lived. Jepson was amazed by her integrity and simply asked her opinion of the Germans. She replied that she loathed them and that despite her personal beliefs she needed to help the Allies stop them. She knew Britain was fighting for good in this situation. Jepson thus immediately accepted her to the SOE. He would later say of her: "I find myself constantly remembering her with a curious and very personal vividness which outshines the rest. The small, still features, the dark, quiet eyes, the soft voice and the fine spirit glowing in her.”

Training

Khan arrived at an SOE base in Surrey in 1943 for training. The course was tough and aimed to weed out the ill-suited. The military side of it was an area in which Khan failed at due to extreme clumsiness. Her signalling however was outstanding and showed her promise so her training had that as the main focus. The next stage was a security course which Khan also didn’t do well in.She had problems noticing people following her and was bad at creating new identities. One lieutenant said she didn’t “like to do anything two faced” something needed for the role. During the mock interrogation she was absolutely terrified. Her peers started to doubt her competence as they believed this gentle dreamy writer would break in the field. Vera Atkins meet with Noor and told her their concerns. Khan was shaken by their words but asserted herself and stated she was capable of stepping up to the challenges ahead. Her final piece of training was a ninety-six hour project in which she had to set up a fake identity in a town, recruit people and set up message drops which she did well.The concluding remarks of Colonel Spooner a man who disagreed with women entering this role was that she wasn’t brainy ,disliked the security aspect,was unstable ,but keen.He believed she wasn’t suited to the role. Buckmaster the head of the operation disagreed. He later stated it was necessary to utilize someone with Khan’s skills at whatever cost simply because France was in desperate need of Wireless operators. As she prepared to travel to Paris her code name Madeline or Nurse and her cover name Jeanne Marie Renier were created alongside her cover story about being a child psychologist. At a farewell dinner before leaving Noor complemented Atkins on a silver bird brooch she had and was touched when Vera gave it to her for luck.

In the field

Noor arrived as a member of the large Prosper network which fell apart almost immediately after she arrived. They had been betrayed by a double agent and many members were disappearing. Soon Noor found herself on the run and signalled Britain the news. She was asked to return and refused saying she’d brave the danger because her belief in justice and liberty was so strong and her work so needed. Noor was always one step ahead of the pursuing Gestapo ,but the SOE warned her only to receive messages as sending them would make her traceable which she ignored. She also disguised herself , took to cycling everywhere and always kept on the move to evade capture. One near arrest occurred on the metro when some German soldiers sat near her. They became curious about the contents of her suitcase and asked her what was inside. Khan breezily lied to the men saying that it contained a projector and opened her case to show them which they believed. Noor continued producing info on Prosper while the distance between herself and the enemy shortened. The Nazis , despite their success in destroying Prosper, had become enraged over the summer by Khan. She was impossible to pin down and was making fools of them. One of her pursuers called Goertz noted after the war that whenever they found what they believed was her location it would suddenly change and they'd be clueless again. She had saved many operatives and airmen as well as helping transfer over a million francs to the resistance. Khan had to deal with terrible loneliness and extreme anxiety at this time ,but again and again she proved herself a fantastic operative. In autumn she was saved by the Allied double agent Viennot who had the gestapo’s trust. Khan went to meet two Canadian agents not knowing they were imposters. Viennot’s men found this out before a second meeting, saving her ,but now the enemy knew her appearance and voice. The agent set about helping her to avoid detection again by giving her a more Parisian look through dying her hair auburn and giving her a blue suit as well as arranging a new flat near the Gestapo’s headquarters which was likely to never be suspected. Noor continued to aid the Allies but the weight of duty had begun to show. Those in September who saw here described her as exhausted. After her refusal to rest in the country it was decided she should be officially retired and a date in October was chosen. They thanked her for her service but stated it was time she left the field as those she had been in contact with recently were now disappearing. The Germans stepped up their search after hearing of her departure however fate was sealed instead when a Frenchwoman sold Noor to them for one hundred thousand francs not knowing she was worth a million. On October the 13th an ambush was set in her flat. She returned to find a turned resistance agent waiting. Backup arrived to find him cowering away from Noor with his gun pointed at her. She was took down whilst struggling defiantly and sent on to the Gestapo’s headquarters. Noor had been literally within a hairs breadth of home and family, but repugnant treachery had stopped it.

Capture and Imprisonment

Noor was took to the Avenue Foch headquarters of the Gestapo and her detailed notes were took into custody. Within less than an hour Noor attempted an escape by demanding a private bath then jumping out onto the ledge but was stopped when the integrator Vogt spotted her from his window. She was interviewed daily for weeks but refused to speak. In the end her notes enabled them to work her wireless and multiple agents were sent to France to immediate capture. One captor commended her courage and refusal to break. Khan planned another escape with two men in the cells. The trio ended up on the roofs and used blankets to make ropes. At this moment an RAF air raid occurred. During these the prisoners would all be checked on so their absence would quickly become clear. They made their way to the street below the building to find soldiers who shot in their direction and were soon captured. She earned both the respect and fury of the Gestapo for this act. After refusing to behave she was sent onto Pforzheim prison and was labelled a dangerous inmate thus she fell under the ‘Night and Fog’ legislation. This meant the prisoner’s existence was hidden and that they were kept in solitary with small rations. Noor spent ten months like this. A kind old German man made this time bearable and befriended her. Her religion also brought solace at the time. Some French female operatives arrived during her stay. One of them sang her recent news to the tune of a French song however the guards discovered this and Noor was punished severely through a beating and getting forced to wear a sackcloth when walking in the prison’s garden. Eventually she left the women a message on their metal dinner bowls saying she was leaving in September 1944.

Liberte

Noor was put on a train with three other SOE agents to what they had been told was a camp where they’d do agricultural work. In reality they were going to Dachau and all of their executions had already been ordered. In the meantime this train ride gave them a tiny bit of freedom and joy on this tragic last journey. They smoked English cigarettes then some of the guard’s when they had run out, watched the scenery and talked to one another happily. They arrived at Dachau at midnight. What happened after this point is unclear with different accounts explaining things differently. In Noor’s personal file it said the others and her were took out to the grounds the next day and shot before being dispatched to the crematorium. However this was the Nazi account. Others have put forward an even worse version of events. They state she was beaten brutally close to death and possibly raped before being shot. The sources differ over weither it took place in her cell or outside. Either way, as the gun was lifted Noor gathered strength and shouted her last words for her killers to hear. Liberte. Noor was only thirty years old.It took til 1947 for her family and the SOE to confirm her death however soon after in England her mother and brother dreamt of Noor surrounded by blue light. She told them she was free. Posthumously she was honoured for her immense bravery by being given the Georges Cross, the French Croix de guerre with gold star and more. Like many women combatants her importance has been ignored. Her biographer, Shrabani Basu, has stated she importantly shows us how to live by qualities like pacifism and compassion. She is also an example of the two and a half million Indian volunteers who helped in the War. POC from the empire who aided in the fight against Nazism are seldom remembered or respected enough much like women. Noor was a ‘gentle writer and musician’ ,but also a ‘tigress in the field’. She was a pacifist who died with liberty on her lips. A woman who touched those around her irretrievably. A mixed race woman who fought for a country she saw as oppressive because the Nazis had to be stopped. She was a woman of contrasts. Someone completely human like us all. Someone who embodied true valour and spirit. Through her we can see courage is ‘not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it’.

References Interview with Shrabani Basu:http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-20240693 Spy Princess by Shrabani Basu:https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=BRw7AwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=noor+inayat+khan+shows+us+how+to+live+by+qualities+like+pacifism+and+compassion&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjxp9nwzrrUAhWMIsAKHZzNCUYQ6AEIMzAC#v=onepage&q&f=false" The Women Who Spied for Britain by Robyn Walker:https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=jQvXAwAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false Women of the Resistance by Marc E. Vargo:https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=jf0T9JzYTeoC&pg=PA4&dq=women+of+the+resistance&hl=en&sa=X&ei=s4EAVKvxMsTaaNP7gsAK&ved=0CE4Q6AEwCA#v=onepage&q&f=false Noor Inayat Khan Entry in Making Britain Project by Open University:http://www.open.ac.uk/researchprojects/makingbritain/content/noor-un-nisa-inayat-khan Information on the Noor Memorial Statue:http://www.noormemorial.org

#ww2 #history #modern history #1940s #muslim #british history #muslim history #spies

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sandranelsonuk · 7 years

Text

How Benjamin Houy Wrote a Sales Page that Increased His Revenue By 21% – In A Market Dominated By Big Companies

The language-learning industry is fierce. It’s dominated by multi-million dollar corporations. These are companies with huge advertising budgets. They have books and software on every e-commerce platform and in every bookstore on the planet.

It’s the sort of market that seems IMPOSSIBLE to penetrate.

Benjamin sells an online course that teaches people how to speak French. He doesn’t have a lot of money to spend on advertising. He doesn’t have a dedicated, full-time marketing team. He runs a one-man operation.

How could he possibly compete?

He has dreams of creating more products and growing his business. But his sales had hit a plateau. He has a great product that really helps people. But his sales page just wasn’t converting well enough to take his business to the next level.

And that’s when he enrolled in my online course, Sales Page that Converts.

“I had been following Social Triggers for a few years already … I really thought Sales Page that Converts would be ideal to improve my sales page and learn about marketing in general.”

And what happened?

Benjamin created a sales page that increased his revenue from his online course by 21%.

The best part?

Benjamin no longer has to stress about where the money is coming from. He now has peace of mind knowing that his sales page is running on autopilot to make him sales everyday. This frees up his time to create more products and grow his business.

Here’s how he did it…

“I Didn’t Know Why People Were Buying My Courses”

The biggest mistake Benjamin made in creating his first sales page occurred before he even wrote one word of copy.

“When I did the sales page for the first time, I basically wrote everything in five hours without researching anything.”

Benjamin skipped the most important step in creating a sales page that converts: the customer research.

This is a mistake that so many people make. And it drives me CRAZY.

People are so eager to start making sales that they slap a sales page together and hope for the best. Then, when they make no sales, they’re left scrambling to figure out why.

But before you create your sales page, you must deeply understand who your customers are and what they’re struggling with.

That’s why I show you how to do customer research the right way in Module 1 of Sales Page that Converts. I show you how to uncover hidden insights about your customers. Then, I show you how to use those insights to write sales copy that makes your ideal customers think, “It’s like they’re reading my mind!”

Benjamin THOUGHT he knew his customers. But in reality, he only knew the surface-level stuff.

He knew his customers wanted to learn French before a trip to France. But he didn’t know what was really driving them to want to speak French.

“Before [Sales Page that Converts], I thought that people want to learn French because it sounds nice. I realized, actually, that most people who buy the course are people who went to France already and had a bad experience because they couldn’t really communicate and they were frustrated.”

This was a huge ah-ha moment for Benjamin.

He learned that his customers don’t want to learn French just because it sounds nice. They want to learn French because they suffered through a previous humiliating and frustrating experience. And they wanted to ensure they never had to live through that experience ever again.

Benjamin also learned that his ideal customers weren’t clear on exactly what he was selling. And they weren’t buying because of it.

“Before [Sales Page that Converts], I was always saying to people that my course and my website are about helping you learn French grammar naturally. When I interviewed customers, I realized that nobody really cared about that so much … Not a single person talked about that.”

He was selling people something that they didn’t actually care about. His course teaches people how to speak French based on real-life conversations. Yet, he was telling people that he would teach them French grammar. And it was hurting his conversions.

“I moved away from saying ‘learn grammar naturally.’ And instead, I say, ‘learn real-life conversations’ because almost every customer I interviewed told me it was the reason they chose to buy the course.”

And as you can see below, his copy is much stronger because of it.

He writes:

“They spent months learning vocabulary and verb conjugations they quickly forgot, did their best to understand the difference between masculine and feminine words, and worked hard to get rid of their accent.

They may even have spent thousands of dollars on expensive French classes and fancy apps.

All of this to end up switching to English because they’re ashamed of their French!”

This speaks directly to his customers’ frustration. They’ve wasted time and money learning French vocabulary and grammar that proved useless in real-life situations. They’ve felt embarrassed and ashamed trying to speak French and failing.

So, when they read this, they know Benjamin really understands their struggle. And they believe that he can help them solve it.

Insights like this can be the difference between a sales page that bombs and a sales page that converts over and over again. And I teach you how to do it in Sales Page that Converts.

Assembling Your Sales Page Is Easy With This Foolproof Framework

One of the biggest problems Benjamin faced when he created his first sale page was that he didn’t know what he should include and where to put it.

He had previously purchased a copywriting ebook to help. But it didn’t make the whole sales page process any clearer.

“There were a lot of examples in the book. So, I just kind of copied what I saw and tried to adapt it for my products. I just put everything together, but it didn’t really explain the reasons for why you needed to do things.”

He had a lot of tips and tactics. But he didn’t understand how they all tied together to form a cohesive, persuasive sales page.

The end result was a sales page that just didn’t feel right and didn’t convert as well as he knew it should.

“I thought that the whole thing was a bit needy … I felt the copy on the page wasn’t really flowing and that something was missing.”

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This was huge for Benjamin.

“A lot of courses aren’t very clear. You watch a lot of videos, but you don’t really know what to do. With this course, it was much more structured. So, I knew I just had to follow all the steps and, at the end, I would have my page ready … I would just have to follow the plan and it would work.”

Having this proven framework meant that Benjamin didn’t have to figure out what works by trial and error. He didn’t have to second-guess his decisions. He just had to follow the framework, and he could create a sales page that converts.

During this process, Benjamin was able to revamp the sections of his sales page he already had. And he added some key components to his sales page that he was missing.

First, he realized that his customers had no clue what they were actually buying from him.

“People weren’t really clear about what I was actually selling. They didn’t know if I was selling a DVD, or a CD, or if I would send them something, or if it was digital.”

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Now, thanks to Sales Page that Converts, he has a revamped “How It Works” section that includes all the nitty-gritty details about his course. So, his customers are never left wondering what they can expect to receive if they enroll.

Benjamin also added clear, benefit-driven bullet points in his course description.

“I didn’t have bullet points on the previous page because I didn’t know how to make them sound interesting. Sales Page that Converts helped me write bullet points to create curiosity and get people excited to explore my course.”

In Sales Page that Converts, Benjamin learned how to write benefit-driven bullet points that make his prospects’ ears perk up.

As you can see, even with a simple design, these benefit-driven bullet points speak directly to his ideal customers. They create curiosity so that his prospects just need to know more.

And finally, Benjamin added what I like to call “The Wake Up Call.”

“The Wake Up Call” is a simple strategy you can use on your sales page to create a sense of urgency for your prospects to buy. And I show you exactly how to create this section and where to put it inside the course.

After Benjamin created all the “Building Blocks” of his sales page, the rest was smooth sailing because he had a template for assembling his Building Blocks in a strategic way, piece by piece.

You see, your sales page is really just a conversation between you and your ideal customers. And you want that conversation to logically and seamlessly convince your ideal customers that your product or service is the right fit for them.

With the Sales Page that Converts framework, this really is as easy as plugging each Building Block into the template. This way, you don’t have to worry about what goes where and why. I give you the structure to ensure that your sales page is designed to convert browsers into buyers.

Plus, I also include html sales page templates so you can get your sales page up and running as quickly as possible.

Benjamin was able to revamp and release his new sales page quickly and seamlessly. And the results have been amazing!

A 21% Increase In Revenue With Sales Page That Converts

Benjamin launched his course with his old sales page for the last time in January 2017. He earned $1,668 in revenue from that launch.

Then, in February 2017, Benjamin launched his course again using his NEW sales page that he created with Sales Page that Converts.

And guess what happened?

His revenue increased from $1,688 in January to $2,021 in February.

The best part? His website traffic was down in February compared to January.

So, he increased his revenue by 21% with LESS traffic!

Now that he has a sales page that’s converting well, it basically runs on autopilot. This means that he can use this sales page to generate sales over and over again.

This is a HUGE change for someone who previously spent too much time tinkering with his sales pages, grasping at straws to increase his conversions.

“Sometimes I would wake up and change half of the sales page and see how it went, which was pretty much always a terrible idea.”

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“I Can Focus On Other Business Knowing The Sales Page Will Always Be There To Sell”

So, what’s next for Benjamin?

With his sales page in order, Benjamin has put all his energy into product development and growth for his business…

“I’m entirely focused on link-building, writing articles, and creating products. Now that I know the sales pitch is covered, I can just relax without having to worry that I won’t have enough sales this month.”

Now that Benjamin has a high-converting sales page in place, he doesn’t have to stress out about where the money is coming from. He knows his sales page is going to keep converting browsers into buyers. This frees him up to create new products and grow his business.

Benjamin’s story is a testament to the power of a high-converting sales page.

With a sales page that converts, you don’t have to worry about where your next paycheck is coming from. You’ll know that you have a system in place designed to automatically convert browsers into buyers. You’ll have more free time that you can spend with your family and friends or take a vacation. And you’ll have more time and more money to invest back into your business.

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[Join Sales Page that Converts Today]

from Julia Garza Social Media Tips http://feeds.socialtriggers.com/~r/SocialTriggers/~3/dtpaEFrn_yQ/

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jarzleninz-blog · 4 years

Text

How to Sound Like a Native English Speaker

How to Say the English R

Master English Pronunciation

You've put in the hours. You've studied the context. You've even memorized the elusive and exhausting grammar rules.

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Speak Easy: How to Master the English Language

Your Accent is super sexy! You worked hard and you put in the time to learn another language. You know the grammar rules, you’ve mastered the vocabulary, but still, when it comes to speaking, something always stops you in your tracks; the absolute and pervasive fear of butchering the pronunciation. And English pronunciation rules simply don’t play fair. There are hidden rules that only native language speakers seem to know. English is not a tonal language, is it? Why is it so hard?

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How awesome would it be for performers, public speakers, professors, artists, singers and musicians to slip out of their discomfort and reluctance and slip confidentially between their native language and English, seamlessly and fluently?

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The Birth of a Mouth Hacker

I have had the distinct privilege of being a teacher, tutor, mentor, and friend to people who look, think, act, and speak differently from me. I have lived among and interacted with people from cultures different from my own, and have played and adventured with people whose cultures and customs are so vastly different, being among them was much like living in an alternate universe. And in all I have done, in everything I have seen, I have been humbled, moved to tears, heartened, disheartened, inspired, and awed by the experience.

People who I am very different from took me under their wings, invited me into their inner worlds, opened their homes and shared their lives and their sacred stories with me. Having found myself as a stranger in a foreign land on multiple occasions, I have also been struck and struck again by a common theme that seemed to connect the many people I had come into contact with. It is simply put, the reverence and fear of the English language.

I have wanted to both shake and hug the people who uttered the sentence, “I’m sorry, my English is not so good,” as I understood what they where telling me and as I empathized so wholeheartedly with all that uttering that sentence implied.

As a polyglot and avid linguaphile, I understand that feeling. As if someone has pried open your jaws, snaked inside your throat and siphoned out all of the words that just moments ago were crowding your mind and moving and shoving past each other to try to race to the tip of your tongue, where they then just simply vanished.

I have taught high school students whose sense of self worth was directly tethered to their ability to speak English. They enviously and helplessly looked on while the younger students who had been immersed in it from a younger age, out performed them in every category of their English learning. I have seen grown adults walking towards me on a crowded street, notice me, gasp, and literally run in the other direction out of sheer terror that I might come at them in English.

I have been approached by college students relaying their frustration and dismay at having to study and perform under the guidance of a lecturer whose English they could not begin to decipher. And I have sat amongst dear friends in silence, them refusing to speak out of fear that their words might come out wrong.

And I dreamed and dreamed of a way to help-of a way to connect confidence with learner. I harnassed all of my experience and all of my knowledge of English teaching. I slowed down and held each English word and sound in my mouth. I savored how they moved and felt rolling on the tongue, against the teeth, how they rumbled in the throat, and danced on the lips. I observed and researched and tested, and tested again. And I came to find that many of the sounds that were elusive to English language learners, were there hiding in plain sight, just within reach, of nearly every English language learner’s grasp.

I packaged it and tried to make it accessible, fun and quick, entertaining and easy to use. If you are or know of an English scholar who is struggling to master pronunciation and fluency, send them my way and we’ll soon get them sorted and well on their way to being connected to their confidence.

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passportrequired · 6 years

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48 Blurry Hours in Amsterdam

Today I found myself on my couch sipping some coffee before work. I woke up a little early, turned on the television, made my coffee and began to read and re-read this card I got about a year ago at a networking dinner hosted by Keith Ferrazzi. The card says the following on its front side, “If money was not an issue, how would you spend your time?” That’s an easy question. I would travel. I would explore the world while simultaneously exploring the inner workings of my being. Life is short, there are no guarantees. The idea that I should not dawdle in life is exactly what took me to Europe to celebrate my 35th trip around the Sun two years ago.

I chose to head to Europe and specifically Spain because I wanted to run with the bulls. This was a tough decision for me because my birthday happens to land on July 14th which is Bastille Day and apparently France knows how to party on that day. The one thing I kept thinking about in terms of where to ring in my special day was that I could party in France any Bastille Day but given that I have had worsening knee pain the window for running with massive bulls while hungover in Spain was likely closing sooner than I would like. I decided to buy a one-way ticket to Amsterdam for $400 USD and said “Fuck it, whatever happens it will be fun.”

I mentioned my decision to fly to Europe to a few folks at my cousin Tank’s 4thof July party a couple of days before I was scheduled to head out and Tank’s dad, whom we call “Pops,” mentioned he might be interested in a good run through Spain. I told him my plan: Fly to Amsterdam on July 6thand party for two days, take a quick flight to Madrid and hang for the night, hop on a train to Pamplona in the morning so that we could run and rage there for a few days. Pop’s said he would look into it. On the morning of July 6th,I woke up to an email from Pops stating that he was on his way to Amsterdam and to find him there so we could wreck shit. FUCK YES! I lit up a joint, stuffed my pockets with THC infused gummy bears, summonsed my Uber and made my way to LAX.

I arrived at LAX and immediately started drinking with a group of French soccer fans. I found myself passed out in a cramped seat near the airplane bathroom a few hours later. I made my flight. I hurried off the plane as soon as I could. I took a few photos of the rain soaked tarmac at the Schiphol airport and messaged Pops. I made my way to the ClinkNoord Hostel and he met me there. Turns out Pops had no place to stay yet and our first order of business after lighting some legally purchased sacred kratom and marijuana was to find a place for him to crash. My hostel was fully booked. We dropped off our luggage at my hostel and Googled a bunch of places. We found a small hotel on the other side of the river, Pops checked in, and we were off.

The next 48 hours were a blur. The skies were cloudy. It sprinkled here and there but overall the weather was pleasantly cool for July. We smoked ample amounts of the Devil’s Cabbage all in the name of cultural immersion, we drank many local beers, stuffed our fat faces with doner kebabs, and rode bicycles everywhere. My inner fat-kid loves Amsterdam. According to my journal, we paid the Popeye’s Coffee Shop a visit. For the July bullet journal design, I created a simple calendar in my journal using my favorite bullet journal highlighters. Tank recommended this place and it did not disappoint. We smoked a joint in the basement while sipping on Americanos. We then made our way to Barney’s for some burgers and ice cream milkshakes right after Popeye’s. Marijuana, burgers, milkshakes. It was all so damn good. We rolled up some joints in Barney’s and planned out our day.

Amsterdam is a visually stimulating place. The sun doesn’t set until sometime after 10PM, the streets have canons just chilling on random corners, party goers drink heavily on private boats cruising through the canals. The buildings look like gingerbread houses and castles. The Red-light district has all sorts of fuckery going on at any given time. This place is wild, legal marijuana, legal prostitutes, and legal magic truffles. All sorts of people walking the streets just having a good ol’ time. At one point, I got cursed out by a prostitute during the midday rush. Pops and I turned a corner and walked through a small street filled with doorways leading to some version of BDSM ecstasy. In my defense, I did not realize that taking photos of these women is frowned upon.

Pops and I decided to avoid anything looking like an organized tour like the plague, I feel bad for people on tour buses hopping on and off with their selfie sticks and hermetically sealed, germ free vacation packages. Pops and I decided to do the opposite of those lifeless souls…we rode bicycles dangerously close to cars in opposing traffic. We dodged pedestrians. I felt like I was in a James Bond movie driving my bike next to the waterways. I couldn’t help but think about what the fuck I was doing in Europe. I spent many of my formative years sleeping on floors and garages because we were piss poor and now I’m riding free through one of the prettiest cities on Earth. Life is good.

We visited the Rijksmuseum while under the influence of a nice sativa. I love museums. Amsterdam did not disappoint. Vermeer’s and Rembrandt’s work hung all around me. The Gallery of Honour was impressive. I remembered learning all about Rembrandt’s use of light sources in my high school and college art classes. Many of these paintings were larger than I could ever imagine from looking at a text book or online. There was a massive library in the museum filled with old books, essentially a bibliophile’s dream. Parts of the museum were dedicated to showing Nazi propaganda. This was hard to look at in some cases but it was important. Art should shake the viewer on some level.

Pops and I continued to wander off the beaten tourist path and found ourselves in the Jordaan area. We determined that based on the angle of the sun and our proximity to the equator that now would be the best time to get massages. Lucky for us the Jordaan had a massage place next to a nice bar. We had some drinks with the local crowd after our massages. We met the owner of this bar, a massive beast of a man with a kind heart. I don’t recall this gentleman’s name but man his fucking hand felt like a bear claw when he placed it on my shoulder and asked who we were and how we found his place. Turns out he was a former professional fighter who opened the bar with his father in law, who happened to be a former professional race car driver, after retiring from the fight game. This cat liked the tattoos that Pops and I have collected over the years and decided to show us his. He lifted his shirt up to show us some massive Brazilian flag tattoo spanning the width of his barrel sized chest. We all drank a lot. The bar owner encouraged it. Pops and I didn’t want to be rude to our host so we obliged and drank heavily for maybe two hours chatting with our new friend about life in Amsterdam and the Jordaan. I would absolutely go back to that area. They loved us there. Two Mexicans from LA and we were brave enough to walk a few blocks away from the tourist zone. Life rewarded our curiosities with good people, food, and drink.

For the record, Pops and I do not speak Dutch. Pops can barely speak Spanish. With that said we decided it would be fun to smoke a joint on our way to the train station in Amsterdam before hopping on a train to the Eindhoven airport in Utrecht. We booked a ridiculously cheap flight to Madrid on Ryan Air and could only fly out of Eindhoven. Fuck it more adventuring for us. The train ride was scary because for the first hour I wasn’t even sure we were on the right train. Pops slept. I wrote in my journal and looked out the window at random farms and windmills. This shit was weird for me. Los Angeles is lacking in the farmland and windmill department. I grew up around homeless people and gangbangers in Pacoima. It was culture shock on some level.

I had time to think on this leg of the trip. Headphones on, journal out, I couldn’t help but get into my feelings a little. I was dehydrated, smelly, sweaty, sporting some weird ass raccoon print tank top. I am certain the folks on the train looked at me like a damn alien. I thought about what we just did, we smoked over an eighth of weed each day in Amsterdam, rode bikes like maniacs through the city, hung out with complete strangers, bar hopped in the local zone. At one point Pops and I were in some part of town kinda far from the Red-Light District partying with a bunch of non-Americans. Pops is a bad ass for a 63 year old. He started egging on some large “Bros,” you know the frat guys who sport Tap Out gear but likely never fought, into fighting one another. Pops got tired of their tough guy posturing and called them all pussies for not fighting each other already. These guys were terrified of Pop’s little crazy ass. Meanwhile 20 feet away a crew of girls kept drunkenly stumbling onto each other. I have video of this somewhere. Amsterdam is wild yo.

Europe is the “Old World” people have lived in the same communities for generations. This is a huge contrast to my transient upbringing. Moving each year chasing that first month of free rent where ever we could. Making new friends each year. My experience in LA is worlds apart from what people experience in Europe, at least that’s how it felt. I liked it though. Even if I didn’t know a soul in Amsterdam it still felt good to be in a place where people have real roots. These roads have been around for ages. Kings and their armies have marched through these old European streets for hundreds of years. There isn’t anything like that in the US. American heritage is a mashup of many things. The history of humans is a short one. The history of America even more so. It felt weird to know that over the course of human history millions of souls died on the land we were on. I reflected on what this meant to me at various parts of my trip. The sense of belonging, the sense of community, history both personal and on a larger scale.

My impressions of Amsterdam are probably not too different than yours. I felt like everyone was happily glowing, looking put together like living breathing H&M advertisements. I liked Amsterdam. Not entirely for the weed though that is a good selling point but mostly because of the people and culture. I thought it was amazing that so many paintings in the museums depict water wars and navies in battle due to the Dutch being a seafaring people. It was a contrast to what I’ve seen in other museums where the artwork depicts land battles and marching armies. Equally impressive was the variety of street art. Banksy’s were everywhere along with countless other artists’ work in cleverly placed spaces throughout the city. I also enjoyed that fact that this was a cyclist and pedestrian friendly city. The bike stations situated on the barges were amazing to look at because of the sheer number of bikes crammed on them. I wondered how often people lost track of where they parked their bikes. I especially loved taking the ferry across the river from the main part of Amsterdam to the Noord. I think my favorite memory of the trip was my last night out, I hopped on the ferry back to the Clinknoord and watched sunrise while sitting on my rented hostel bike. I could see the big Amsterdam letters on the roof of the train depot. I was in Europe.

I was happy that Pops came along. Pops is wild man. He told me some crazy stories about his memories of the seventies. Some guy once pulled a shotgun on him while he was sitting in his car and Pops’ homeboy snuck around from behind the guy and snatched the gun away. Pops then proceeded to beat the shit out of him as soon as he got out of the car. I’ve heard variations of this story from Pop’s wife Connie. This story wasn’t surprising. Pops was a lunatic in his day. LA breeds that shit. I love LA but damn if the street and prison cultures don’t make some crazy ass people. I relish the moments when Pops decided to wild out because it usually means I am gonna laugh at the wild shit he says or does next.

All of these thoughts floated around my mind as I watched miles and miles of farmland scroll past me on the train. We eventually made it to Eindhoven. I was relieved that I chose the right train platform and hopped on the correct train. Pops and I smoked our last joint outside the Eindhoven airport entrance. I exhaled smoke as I walked into the airport. We left our little half smoked joint on a bench just outside of the airport doors for the next person to enjoy. We drank beers on the deck while watching planes take off. We had a few hours before our flight to Madrid. This was the calm before the next part of our trip. I messaged my mom that we made it safely to Eindhoven. She expressed her worry over my plans to run wild through Pamplona. My reply, I’m good mom, probably I won’t die but if I do this is a far better death than dying on the toilet or decaying slowly over time in a shitty cubicle or on the 405 freeway. I am the voice of reason here.

48 Blurry Hours in Amsterdam was originally published on Passport Required

#Amsterdam #ClinkNoord Hostel #darnell Lamont walker #David Andrade #European Travel #Mexican Travelers #PassportRequired #Places To Go In Amsterdam #The Netherlands #Things To Do In #Travel #Travel Blog #Travel Writer #wanderlust #Tumblr Travel Photography #TumblrTravel

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: Envisioning Democratic Design at a French Biennial

Akoaki’s Mothership at the 2017 Biennale Internationale Design Saint-Étienne (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic)

SAINT-ÉTIENNE, France — It would likely dismay students of design to learn that, to those not trained to think about the field, it is largely invisible. No object is accidental, no system has fallen arbitrarily into place, yet most of us go about our lives without acknowledging the purpose-built nature of our society. Humans have existed for millennia within constructed environments, all of which are the product of directed thought and effort. This is, perhaps, a heartbreakingly meager revelation to take away from the 2017 Biennale Internationale Design Saint-Étienne — the show’s 10th edition — but it proved to be a major personal step in understanding the context of the work on display and the ideas being discussed.

The theme of this year’s biennial is “Working Promesse — Shifting Work Paradigms,” and as the newest UNESCO City of Design, plus a place with a turbulent labor history, Detroit is a featured guest. It shares with its host the challenge of redefining itself as industrial manufacturing wanes; Saint-Étienne was once a major mining and manufacturing hub of northern France. The future of work is of great concern to designers, tasked as they are with creating the systems that abet and define labor — from the objects moving down the assembly line to the payroll that tracks working hours, and from the ergonomic furniture in an office cubicle to the flak jacket that protects its wearer from gunfire, all the way up to the internal revenue systems that put a percentage of one’s compensation back into the regulatory governing body. All by design.

The main biennial exhibition, Working Promesse: Les Mutations du Travail (Shifting Work Paradigms)

If I sound a little overwhelmed, that’s because it’s frankly terrifying to suddenly realize one is surrounded by objects full of intention. This is an idea I should be comfortable with, as a writer who devotes a great deal of time to unpacking the ambitions of artworks, and as someone with a fairly granular understanding that the world is not made of whole cloth. But something about the biennial — which includes not just an exhibition, but a full program of panel discussions and coffeehouse networking — highlighted for me, as never before, that we are surrounded by designs created to encourage some behaviors and obstruct others. Thought leaders from Saint-Étienne’s Higher School of Art and Design, the University of Michigan’s Stamps School of Architecture, and various local governments, as well as UNESCO commissioners from Cities of Design like Graz, Austria; Dundee, Scotland; and Kobe, Japan, all gathered to share and coordinate strategies for leveraging design in the future of their schools and towns. The decisions made here could influence my work and that of subsequent generations. Taken in that light, even several hundred people in attendance (and the thousands who will visit the biennial over the course of the month) seems like a small turnout.

Installation view of EXTRAVAILLANCES ≠ WORKING DEAD, a collaboration between science fiction writers Alain Damasio and Norbert Merjagnan, and set designer Didier Fiuza Faustino.

So, what of this future? Within the European contingent, there is a collective preoccupation with “bullshit jobs” — the subject of a 2013 article by David Graeber which rightly identifies that the working lives of many people in the modern era are consumed by essentially purposeless tasks, fundamentally designed (never forget, they are designed!) to eat up time in exchange for a paycheck. As an example, have you ever noticed how the staff meeting often takes one hour, whether the topic at hand can be resolved in five minutes or is bound to take two weeks? This subject, among others, is tackled in the student show La gueule de l’emploi, a French expression meaning “the face for the job,” which presents a group of works dealing with the conflation of occupation and identity. Here, job-seeking strategies are broken down in minute and comedic detail, from the semiotics of the cover letter to presenting the right handshake to a device that allows users to generate their ideal employee by setting variables. The end product is, inevitably, a monster.

The ideal candidate generator, part of La gueule de l’emploi

The subject of bullshit jobs crops up again in an adjacent exhibition, L’Architecture du travail (The Architecture of Work), which purposefully addresses a common shortcoming among architects: the tendency to think about construction and execution, rather than systems and maintenance. On one side of a long, narrow room are eight research projects, their individual findings incorporated into a chalkboard wall of macrocosmic design philosophizing that would put A Beautiful Mind to shame. Facing this is a microcosmic project: “Maintenance as Architecture,” a multiyear work in progress by Belgian graduate students Koen Berghmans and R. Robles Hidalgo that meticulously chronicles Saint-Étienne’s ongoing maintenance program. As someone with a background that includes manual labor, I find it patently ironic that these students have made intellectual work of it. It was just one of several moments throughout the biennial when I was made to wonder if students are perhaps too cerebral to be entrusted with designing a functional future.

Curator Manuel Bello Marcano frames the research projects on display, quoting Fredic Jameson: “It is easier to imagine the end of the world than to imagine the end of capitalism.”

But this is where the Detroit contingent comes through. As the featured city, it has three separate exhibition spaces at the biennial, as well as a spate of participatory programming. Altogether, Detroit sent some 70 envoys from many walks of life — including this writer — to represent the city and contribute to the dialogue. The invitation came through Akoaki, a husband-and-wife design team made up of longtime Detroit transplants Anya Sirota and Jean-Louis Farges. Sirota, who came to the US as a refugee from Ukraine, and Farges, a native of Paris, have brought contemporary design training and an international perspective to their work in the Motor City. But what they do has always been based entirely on the lived realities of native Detroiters.

Jean-Louis Farges (left) and Anya Sirota of Akoaki taking a rare moment in the spotlight and meeting the international press

Out of Site courtyard on the opening night of the biennale

The pair’s designated space in the biennial is titled Out of Site and features three of their most iconic interventions in Detroit: the Mothership, which serves as a DJ booth and psychic transport for the members of the O.N.E. Mile project; a series of collapsible set pieces often used as the backdrop for performances by Detroit Afrikan Music Institution; and a modular decorative gateway that can be affixed to the façade of any building where the Detroit Culture Council gathers. Akoaki calls these pieces “urban markers” — and they have indeed become some of Detroit’s most iconic design interventions, often cropping up in repurposed spaces around the city’s Oakland Avenue/North End corridor, where much of the duo’s activity is centered. Importantly, all three works honor and identify the efforts of existing residents to shape their own communities in the face of gentrification. But Sirota and Farges seem to fall into the invisibility trap, too — in their efforts to centralize Detroiters, they tend to divert attention away from their own far-reaching efforts to leverage design in a democratic way.

The gate used by the Detroit Cultural Council that can be affixed to any building to indicate the presence of a cultural meeting. Akoaki focuses on solutions that do not require new construction, but leverage the existing wealth of space in Detroit.

Another quiet powerhouse of Detroit creative infrastructure is Cezanne Charles, founder of Creative Many Michigan. The organization is dedicated to filling the often insurmountable gap between individual practitioners and large institutions, offering services that tackle one of design’s enduring obsessions: how to grow to scale. Charles has helped a stable of small projects achieve greater capacity — including some of those representing Detroit in Saint-Étienne, such as Design99 — largely by offering legal assistance, guidance on nonprofit filings, and help with other tedious, back-of-house details that may not be the strength of creative folks. It’s fitting, then, that Creative Many’s spot at the biennial is ShiftSpace — basically, a coffee shop. It’s exactly Charles’s style to create a place that encourages connections — she’s programmed a full slate of conversations between architects, educators, philosophers, and artists — and to stock it with Detroit originals, including Faygo pop and recipes from Sister Pie. In her unassuming way, Charles is demonstrating her theory of growth in action: her wildly popular exhibition space has created 17 temporary jobs for designers, baristas, and service providers, and actively generated income in the first week of the festival.

Cezanne Charles (right) meets the press in the midst of a busy day at the ShiftSpace Detroit Cafe.

Despite these familiar and approachable projects, it was difficult for me to shake the unsettling realization that design is a major determinant of societal practice. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the early days of the biennial were crawling with city officials, ministers of culture, and even Maurice Cox, planning director of Detroit’s Planning and Development Department. Their presence reminded me that places like Saint-Étienne, Detroit, and other UNESCO designees are eager to use design as a driver for development — a broad concept that’s almost always measured in terms of economic growth rather than, say, social justice or greater class equity. If we are to see real change, to make a real departure from the systems that gentrify neighborhoods and generate a bullshit workforce, we need to go as far as Akoaki, and then a little farther yet. Being a democratic designer does not mean the creation of smooth objects that adorn tastefully minimal environments straight out of Dwell magazine. It means recognizing ourselves, each and every one of us, as either complicit in the designs of others or as potential designers of our own lives. The 2017 Biennale Internationale Design Saint-Étienne is a very good place to begin to understand the possibilities of that empowerment.

The 2017 Biennale Internationale Design Saint-Étienne continues at Site Manufacture-Cité du design (3 Rue Javelin Pagnon, Saint-Etienne, France) through April 9.

Editor’s note: The author’s travel expenses and lodgings were covered by a grant written by Creative Many Michigan.

The post Envisioning Democratic Design at a French Biennial appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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lifeofjesuschrist-blog · 7 years

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Guillaume Bognon

“If French atheists rarely become evangelical Christians, how much rarer it is for one to become an evangelical Christian theologian. So what happened? One might argue that with 66 million French people, I’m just a fluke, an anomaly. I am inclined to see it as the work of a God who says, “I will have mercy on whom I have mercy” (Rom. 9:15). Hearing the facts may help you decide for yourself.

I grew up in a wonderfully loving family in France, near Paris. We were Catholic, a religious expression that seemed to arise more out of tradition and perhaps superstition than conviction. As soon as I was old enough to tell my parents I didn’t believe any of it, I stopped going to Mass. I pursued my own happiness on all fronts, benefiting from my parents’ loving dedication. It allowed me to do well at school, learn to play the piano, and get involved in many sports. I studied math, physics, and engineering in college, graduated from a respected engineering school, and landed a job as a computer scientist in finance. On the sports front, after I grew to be 6 feet 4 inches and discovered I could jump 3 feet high, I ended up playing volleyball in a national league, traveling the country every weekend for the games.

An important part of young male French atheist ideals consisted of female conquests. Here, I was starting to have enough success to satisfy the raunchy standards of the volleyball locker room. All in all, I was pretty happy with my life. And in a thoroughly secular culture, the chances of ever hearing the gospel—let alone believing it—were incredibly slim.

When I was in my mid-20s, my brother and I vacationed in the Caribbean. One day, returning from the beach, we decided to hitchhike home. A car pulled over. Two young women visiting from America were lost and needed directions to their hotel. Incidentally, it was right next to our house, so they gave us a ride.

They were attractive enough that my radar went off immediately, and we started flirting. The one I was interested in happened to mention she believed in God—by my standards an intellectual suicide. She also said she believed that sex belongs in marriage—an even more problematic belief than theism, if that were possible. Nevertheless, once the vacation ended, I returned to Paris, she to New York, and we started dating.

My new goal in life was to disabuse my girlfriend of her beliefs so that we could be together without antiquated notions of God—or sex—standing in the way. I started thinking: What good reason was there to think God exists, and what good reason was there to think atheism was true? This step was important, because my own unbelief rested comfortably on the fact that the smart people around me didn’t believe in God either. It was more a reasonable life assumption than the conclusion of a solid argument. But of course, if I was going to refute Christianity, I first needed to know what it claimed. So I picked up a Bible.

At the same time, I figured there was at least one experiment I could carry out. I thought, If any of this is true, then the God who exists presumably cares greatly about this project of mine. So I started to pray into the air: “If there is a God, then here I am. I’m looking into this. Why don’t you go ahead and reveal yourself to me? I’m open.” I wasn’t, but I figured that if God existed, that wouldn’t stop him.

A week or two after my unbelieving prayer, one of my shoulders started to fail me—without any accident or evident injury. My shoulder would burn out ten minutes into every practice. I just couldn’t spike. The doctor couldn’t see anything wrong, the physical therapist didn’t help, but I was told that I needed to rest my shoulder and to stop playing volleyball for a couple of weeks. Against my will, I was now off the courts.

With my Sundays available, I decided I would go to a church to see what Christians do when they get together. I drove to an evangelical congregation in Paris, visiting it as I would a zoo: to see exotic animals that I had read about in books but had never seen in real life. I remember thinking that if any of my friends or family could see me in a church, I would die of shame.

I don’t remember a word from the sermon. As soon as the service ended, I jumped up and hurried to the exit door, avoiding eye contact so I wouldn’t have to introduce myself. I reached the back door, opened it, and literally had one foot out the door when a chilling blast went up from my stomach all the way to my throat. I heard myself saying: “This is ridiculous. I have to figure this out.” So I put my foot back in, closed the door, and went straight to the pastor.

“So, you believe in God?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling.

“So how does that work out?” I asked.

“We can talk about it,” he said. After most of the people left, we went to his office and spoke for hours. I bombarded him with questions, and we met again over several weeks. He patiently and intelligently explained his worldview. And I nervously started to consider that all of it could be true. My unbelieving prayers shifted to, “God, if you are real, you need to make it clear so I can jump in and not make a fool of myself.” I started to hope that he would open the sky and send down the light.

What followed was less theatrical and more brutal: God reactivated my conscience. This was not a pleasant experience.

At the same time I had started my investigations, I had also come to commit a particularly sinister misdeed, even by atheistic standards. Though I knew exactly what I had done, I had shoved it down inside. But God brought it back to mind in full force, and I finally saw it for what it was. I was struck with an intense guilt, crippled with chest pain, and disgusted at the thought of what I had done and the lies I had covered it with.

I was lying in pain in my apartment near Paris, when all of a sudden the quarter dropped. That is why Jesus had to die: me. He who knew no sin became sin on my behalf, so that in him I might become the righteousness of God (2 Cor. 5:21).

He took upon himself the penalty that I deserved, so that in God’s justice, my sins would be forgiven—by grace as a gift, rather than by my righteous deeds or religious rituals. He died so that I may live. I placed my trust in Jesus, and asked him to forgive me in the way Scripture promised he would.

Now that everything was in the open, I assumed God wanted me to marry my Christian girlfriend, and I moved to New York. We quickly learned we were absolutely not meant for each other. But now, uprooted and alone, with time on my hands, I was passionate about studying my newfound faith in order to explain it to friends and family. I read book after book, watched lectures and debates, and loved every moment. Eventually it was all I did in my free time. I figured that if I was going to spend all my time and energy studying Christianity, I might as well get a degree out of it. So I applied for seminary, and eventually obtained a master’s in New Testament studies. In the process, I met a wonderful woman, got married, had two children, and pursued my studies with a PhD program in philosophical theology.

This, in short, is how God takes a French atheist and makes a Christian theologian out of him. I was not looking for God; I neither sought him nor wanted him. He reached out, loved me while I was still a sinner, broke my defenses, and decided to pour out his undeserved grace—that his Son might be glorified, and that I might be saved from my sin by grace through faith, and not by works. It is the gift of God, so that no one may boast (Eph. 2:8–9).

That’s the gospel, and it’s good news worth believing.”

#conversionstories

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