#but i understand that in context paul took it very hard

[good-to-drive]

My favorite comments on How Do You Sleep

#i have to admit that i grew up on 90s/2000s rap and hdys always seemed pretty mild to me #but i understand that in context paul took it very hard #tbh the absolute worst thing anyone could ever do to him is to criticize him publicly #to take away his ability to define himself by manipulating his reflection in others' eyes #bc paul was denied self actualization and relied so heavily on his reputation to function as his identity #and john knew that and that's why that's what he fucked with #the beatles #paul mccartney #john lennon #beatles #shitpost #ringo starr #george harrison #how do you sleep #hdys #op

[anna1306]

Hello,

Do you think you can right a poly!lost boys x gn reader who's deaf? Not a lot of deaf representation and I would love to see a fic. Love your work <3

I know very little about that theme, I'm sorry if I wrote something wrong, but I really hope you will enjoy this c:

Poly!Lost boys x Deaf Reader

Not gonna argue about that. That's something new for the boys.

They are used to loud and obnoxious people on the Boardwalk, who doesn't know what personal space is. Who goes out for fun, music and noise.

And there is you. Sitting in the middle of the noise without any care in the world, looking at people. You were in the centre of loud music, yet you didn't even wince when something screechy was screaming in your ears.

Paul tried to sneak up on you. But his scream at you from behind didn't work. He was getting anxious and impatient. Bending over, he looked right into your face, making you finally shiver and look at him strangely.

"Why the hell didn't you get scared?" He asked you angrily. You furrowed you brows and took... A notebook? He watched angrily, as you scribbled something in it. When you raised the page he felt dumb.

"I am deaf, can you talk slower?"

Now it all made sense. You were deaf, that's why you didn't wince from music and didn't hear his scream. Paul sighed, sitting near you. He tried to speak slower and face you so you could read his lips, but it was a challenge for him. He was too restless, too fast. So in the end...

"Tell them I am sorry that I tried to scare them, they can't read my lips." He literally dragged you to the boys. Marko laughed at you dumbfounded expression. David observed the situation from the side, while Dwayne was the quickest to understand the context.

He knew sign language a bit, so he signed "He is sorry." And pointed to Paul. You giggled, scribbling in your notebook.

"He could write it himself."

"He's dumb." Dwayne signed back, and you laughed. However hard Paul tried to pry out what he told you, Dwayne never did answer him.

They kinda adopted you to the group. Whenever they saw you at the Boardwalk, they were near you, helping you or showing you something. It was hard for them to communicate with someone who doesn't hear them, but they managed. Paul still couldn't speak slow enough for you to understand, so he always went to Dwayne. David just lied about his words.

And if we are being honest, it's easier for them with their secret. When you start hanging around them, you can't hear talks about blood, hunting and everything else. Well, if you don't look at them.

David probably the most easy-going with this. He loves quietness after living with the boys for so long. He doesn't care about your disability, it is unique for him. Even in his years he hasn't seen much of it. Plus, David can perfectly talk slowly. And while he doesn't know the sign language, in his book it's even better. You watch him so attentively and closely... Yes, he enjoys it a lot.

Dwayne is the easiest one in terms of communication. He can sign a bit, he speaks little, but slowly. And when he wants to speak to you, he always alerts you, so you could see his face. He is the one the boys are going to for the advice or for some lesson in ASL. He learned only some of it, but when he gets closer with you, he resumes his lessons. This way is even better for him. He doesn't like to talk around people and now he can just sign if he wants to without getting much attention or getting understood by others.

Paul is often frustrated. More with himself than with you, but still he is tensed up most of the times. He can't learn this ASL for the sake of his life and speaking slowly... No, he just can't do that. He has too much thoughts to talk in a calm manner. One time, when he got especially anxious about that, you just pushed yourself into him and pressed your face into his chest. You liked the vibrations of his voice in his chest, so in the end you finally found the way to calm him down. And he was eager to hug you. No matter if you hear him or not.

Marko is the only one who prefers to communicate with you in writing. He constantly drawing in your notebook, wasting your pens, pencils and paper. You collect all of his art at your house. He even crafted your notebook and upgrading it. He liked to scare you with jumping at you, but with time you learned how to guess it.

If anyone talks shit about you or giving you hard time. Even if it is slight disrespect, they are onto it. No one dares to do that. Even if you don't hear them, they do. And Paul is just tugging you to cafe, while the others "explain" grave mistake of your offenders.

They are wondering what you would be, when they turn you. Would you hear anything? Or just be very sensitive? Still they are very cautious about the truth and keep it hidden as long as they can, so they won't scare you away.

They are supportive, each in his own way. But they learn how to properly communicate with you. Because they are deeply in love with you and that means you are with them forever. Even if you don't hear that for now.

The Lost Boys Taglist: @minafromasgard @starmullet @iloveslasher @twistedharper @ichorixm @promptsforstuff @collieflower215 @henhouse-horrors @smenny @id-rather-be-in-middle-earth @lazuli-leenabride @panickinanakin1 @thatonedeadbride

#tlb #thelostboys #thelostboys1987 #tlb1987 #david tlb #marko tlb #paul tlb #tlb dwayne #poly lost boys #poly lost boys x reader #lost boys x reader #reader insert #x reader #gender neutral

[eloeloanna]

Songs post - here I will write all the readings about songs ❤️

This will take time, so everytime I do a song reading, I will edit this and telling you about the update.

This is for entertainment purposes only.

-

Check my readings! here

-

Was “If I fell” a song dedicated to Paul?

I think this song was for Paul, but unfortunately he didn’t respond like John wanted 😭. John felt like a fool. I think what made John feel good was the fact that he at least “said” something, even when Paul was being a prick 😭. I think Paul, probably without “noticing” the song, later was more affectionate with John. And John was like “what kind of game is this one playing?” 😭😭😭

About “Now And Then”

Anon asked me If this song was dedicated to Paul, but when I first asked this question, the cards decided to tell me the context behind the song.

So what I did, after understanding the context, was asking about any of the candidates. I asked about May, Yoko, and Paul.

I hope you like this one. I did! Even If it was kind of sad in the beginning.

The context behind Now and Then

The cards start telling me about the song: the song is part of a reflection from the current feelings and the past, the want to do something about it, but also the contradictory feeling of “maybe it’s just me romanticising the past. Maybe it wasn’t that good”. Even when feeling like that it was evident that John wanted to reach someone, even when this feeling was torturing him, feeling like mad: it was a mix of hating it, desiring it, wanting to know the truth of it. But he felt that he already left that relationship a long ago, it was like there was nothing else to do. He would thought about what would’ve happened if he gave more, what would’ve happened if they put the things in “their right place”. He thought how happy they would’ve been. He thought about what he left. Also, he tried to watch his past with more impartial lenses, but he knew he was fooling himself. I think in this moment he felt HUGE regret. “Why did I do all of that?”. It was like all he did was for nothing. He tried to have some pride, but the truth was, that having the chance, he would go without any hesitation towards that old relationship.

The “candidates”

May - the cards start telling me about the end of his relationship with her, that it was kind of abrupt, and that he would probably felt defeated, because it was like she didn’t do anything for him? Also, for him was more important what he had before, so he worked for that, even when it may him feel bad. But he didn’t do anything about it and she kept going on with her life

Yoko - it talks about how he persued her, but how impulsive that move was. It was like he enjoyed the minutes of it happening, thinking it was right. When they were together, he had a sense of stability, and pride that left him “happy”, but deep inside he knew it was bullshit.

Paul - it talks about how John wanted to reach Paul but regretted immediately. It was like that boat sailed a long ago. But it was very difficult to still have those feelings, it was very confusing too. It was like why I’m like this even when my heart is broken. John tried very hard to make it seem like he was very happy, but knowing that he “lost” Paul was almost unbearable. He needed a way to do something, and it took him a lot of time. He did something (I think it’s the song) but he never gave it to him. He felt good because he did it, but also, not very satisfied.

So for me, the answer for this question is that this song was definitely for Paul.

#songs reading #mclennon #tarot readings #john and paul #if I fell #now and then

[petewentzisblack1312]

I LOVE SomeMoreNews. In high school in 2016-2018 I was very right wing/libertarian and I used to listen to Jordan Peterson, Dave Rubin, Blaire White, Paul Joseph Watson etc and idk I had an exacerbation of my mental health, I dated an incel and broke up with him (it’s a very long story I won’t bore you with), and then covid happened and I went to nursing school and I started questioning everything that I was told those few years. I mean I was young and impressionable and suppressing my sexuality and trying so hard to be a pick-me-girl which led me to be very angry and that’s how I think I ended up in that sphere of things. ANYWAY SomeMoreNews is very much to thank to bringing me to the left. During quarantine I watched EVERYTHING they put out and idk it really helped me realize where I was wrong. Plus it’s fucking funny and Cody’s delivery is amazing. Idk I just really love them.

Jordan Peterson for me was the one that was very hard to let go of because his self help stuff is… adequate, as Cody says, like it’s generic psychology stuff and like you should expect him to be adequate to even good at psychology since he has a PhD in the topic. It helped me during high school and I really took the book and his lectures to heart but I remember watching that clip that they put in the video where Jordan was hesitant to express support for gay marriage and idk… as a 16 year old girl questioning her sexuality who already didn’t have supportive parents it was so hard to hear from someone I looked up to but I swallowed it down and kept watching him and supporting him. Idk. It was very hard and painful during that time and as a leftist now I just feel healthier because I don’t have to constantly compromise my identity and I’m not as angry at myself for things I can’t control. Anyway. SomeMoreNews is amazing and the episode on jordan was 100/10. I recommend it to everybody now.

i am very very glad to hear that you feel healthier now. like thats the most important thing to me in this whole ask, that youre doing better. im glad some more news was a boon to you. im also glad you got something out of petersons self help, but im sorry you fell down the rabbithole of the rest of petersons whole deal, and im sorry you had to experience his weird conditional homophobia. ultimately, im happy youre healthier and happier now!

also smn is genuinely very funny. i love codys delivery of virtually everything, like hes so expressive in the dryest possible way. love to see what new and exciting ways cody k johnston says "Fair and Balanced™©®" i really liked the jordan peterson episode as evidenced by me finding the time to watch it twice in two days. then again maybe thats just my weirdo ritual of watching some more news episodes over and over ad infinitum. theyre very good at deconstructing the rhetorical tricks different grifters use, which is really helpful for learning how to combat them just generally. theyre not the only ones who do this but i like the way they go about doing so. its just easier for my brain to grab onto after a couple watches. after watching their jordan peterson video and hearing them dissect how dr lobster tries to sell himself as a man without ideology i felt like i had enough context to rewatch abby thorne of philosophy tubes video on jorbson b porbsons ideology. it helps that smn plays clips of what theyre talking about and then breaks them down i think?

obviously a throughline in a lot of right wing grifters rhetoric is that they start with their feeling and justify it with cherry picked 'facts', which helps me understand that conservatism is an ideology based on pathos, and that that is the front you should probably argue on if you want to change minds. seeing it deconstructed over and over again in different examples really makes it easier to identify. it really goes to show you that the best way to change someones mind isnt by playing their game but arguing on a completely different front.

i will say something i noticed is that they do a fair bit of "im inside your walls and can see you" type humor so if thats triggering for you id be mindful. its normally throwaway jokes so that may be better or worse for you.

#dils declares #i noticed because i like that humor but also it can definitely be triggering for me #its not usually. but i gotta watch out. #i should watch the candace owens vid again. #just to reacquaint myself with her whole deal

[46ten]

Let’s talk about Samuel Adams, Father of the American Revolution

Stacy Schiff published an acclaimed biography last year (2022), although it’s certainly not “a revelatory biography from a Pulitzer Prize-winner about the most essential Founding Father—the one who stood behind the change in thinking that produced the American Revolution.” IOW, it’s not a work of scholarship, and I don’t recall a discussion of the “change in thinking” (what does that mean?) that Adams supposedly inspired. 

This is definitely a hagiography, but with the focus on the Nation-state builders, it’s good to see some focus on the “original” fighters for liberty. Samuel Adams, at various times, gets thrown back in the bin when it’s deemed that we shouldn’t be talking about people working to overthrow the government - see popular historian take on Lincoln masterfully shifting the focus of the American founding from the resistance fighters and revolutionary firebrands (the folks the early 19th century THOUGHT of as the Founders) to the architects of the American state, a shift that has stayed with us because it was deemed not a good to champion challenging the government (though Schiff herself is a bit all over the place about respect for Adams at the end and immediately after his lifetime). But Samuel Adams is the RIGHT kind of trouble-maker, which Schiff describes from the very beginning - “moral,” “principled, “humble.” Ah, for the day when one doesn’t need to meet the definition of a moral paragon to be acclaimed in American history. I realize I’ve just written to go read this book, and then stated that books like this are of limited value, but my point is it does have valuable information, but be aware of the undercurrents in this approach. 

Schiff’s prose is appealing, and she tells the real story of Paul Revere better than I’ve seen it anywhere, so the book may be worth it for that alone. But like all popular biographies of this type, beware the lack of context.

Petty point 1.

First, what’s with the makeover on these guys? This guy:

THIS GUY: 

Becomes THIS GUY??!!

I complained about this with Alexander Hamilton, too. 

(And I got distracted by this picture of James Watt, as he seems to be a model for some of this re-working.) 

Petty point 2.

The back author blurb is a long paragraph praising the book by Ron Chernow, so I should probably have thrown this book in the trash.  "A glorious book that is as entertaining as it is vitally important.” —Ron Chernow. Why is it vitally important? I still don’t know. 

Real point 3. 

Adams deliberately destroyed a lot of his correspondence - folks really did want to kill him and issued posters with a ransom so that the Tories could hang him, and took to the grave the stories of lots of events about the American revolution, “Dryly he noted that some individuals enjoyed every political gift except that of discretion.” 

Petty point 4. 

The hardcover has deckled pages, which makes it really hard to find the picture sections (it has two). 

Petty point 5.

To avoid citing in-text, Schiff’s end notes reference the phrase and then provides the citation. While I understand stylists like to do this for readability of non-fiction for a general audience, it also makes it hard to determine an actual fact/reference from stuff the author just pulled out of their ass. I don’t want to flip back and forth to figure out whether you’re making something up. 

Real point 6. 

Not petty, but grim. I’m about to delve into women and maternity again, so these numbers recall the 17th century admonishment to women that with pregnancy, death awaits you. Elizabeth Checkley, Adams’s first wife, gave birth to six children, of whom only two survived past the age of 2. She likely died of complications from her last childbirth. She was the tenth child that predeceased her own father. Adams had 11 siblings, of whom only three survived their own father. 

Petty point 7.

Every description and scene with John Hancock is petty. “The pomp and retinue of an Eastern prince,” Hancock would revel in glory as he did in frivolity,” “thin-skinned,” Hilarious. 

Petty point 8.

Schiff making stuff up about the use of “esquire.” 

Petty point 9.

“The portraitists arrived only after he had gone gray; Boston was, however, a fair-haired city, and the coloring suggests he had been a blond youth.” Um, what?

Real point 10. 

The aversion to discussing cultural/religious matters in these communities. Schiff points out the high literacy of Boston, but makes no mention of what that can be attributed to. Adams is pious, and a Calvinist, and no discussion of what that means. “It is impossible with Adams to determine where piety ended and politics began; the watermark of Puritanism shined through everything he wrote.” Well, what does it mean, and what do you mean by that comment, Schiff? Adams’s first wife was a pastor’s daughter, but don’t look to any further explanation from Schiff about any of what that could mean. Don’t look to her to provide any explanation of the Adams quote I provide below, either. 

Real point 11. 

Schiff reminded me that Massachusetts only barely ratified the Constitution; Adams was one of those who in the end supported it, but was hesitant to ever again be under a national government. And yet he was a Lt. Gov, but his career was clearly in decline. Schiff treats this topic as if it’s baffling - well, maybe the shifts in national politics may explain it? Changes in Boston commercial and political interests? But we already know that popular biographies don’t have time for stuff like that. 

Finally, a quote from Samuel Adams:

“The truly virtuous man and real patriot is satisfied with the approbation of the wise and discerning; he rejoices in the contemplation of the purity of his intentions, and waits in humble hope for the plaudit of his final judge.”

#Samuel Adams #American Revolution #Stacy Schiff #historiography #hagiography #Ron Chernow

[mvpmiral]

Online bible teaching

Having experienced the transforming power of the Holy Spirit through the understanding and application of God’s word, there is always a contagious desire to share that with others. In that same hour said Jesus to the multitudes, Are ye come out as against a thief with swords and staves for to take me? I sat daily with you teaching in the temple, and ye laid no hold on me.Īnd in the day time he was teaching in the temple and at night he went out, and abode in the mount that is called the mount of Olives.Īnd Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every sickness and every disease among the people.Īnd Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people.Īnd when he was come into the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came unto him as he was teaching, and said, By what authority doest thou these things? and who gave thee this authority?Īnd they have turned unto me the back, and not the face: though I taught them, rising up early and teaching them, yet they have not hearkened to receive instruction.Īnd it came to pass on a certain day, as he was teaching, that there were Pharisees and doctors of the law sitting by, which were come out of every town of Galilee, and Judaea, and Jerusalem: and the power of the Lord was present to heal them.If the ability to study, understand, and respond to God’s truth is one of the greatest joys in life, then the ability and opportunity to communicate that hard-won truth to others is a very close second. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord. Whom we preach, warning every man, and teaching every man in all wisdom that we may present every man perfect in Christ Jesus: Paul also and Barnabas continued in Antioch, teaching and preaching the word of the Lord, with many others also. Then came one and told them, saying, Behold, the men whom ye put in prison are standing in the temple, and teaching the people. Now for a long season Israel hath been without the true God, and without a teaching priest, and without law. See verse in context Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Preaching the kingdom of God, and teaching those things which concern the Lord Jesus Christ, with all confidence, no man forbidding him. See verse in context Teaching us that, denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, righteously, and godly, in this present world Īnd he went through the cities and villages, teaching, and journeying toward Jerusalem.Īnd they were the more fierce, saying, He stirreth up the people, teaching throughout all Jewry, beginning from Galilee to this place. I was daily with you in the temple teaching, and ye took me not: but the scriptures must be fulfilled. Whose mouths must be stopped, who subvert whole houses, teaching things which they ought not, for filthy lucre's sake. And he went round about the villages, teaching.Īnd he continued there a year and six months, teaching the word of God among them. Howbeit in vain do they worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.Īnd he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath.Īnd he marvelled because of their unbelief. Or ministry, let us wait on our ministering: or he that teacheth, on teaching īut in vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.

#Online bible teaching

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

Hello just here to say I love how john in your fic is less impressed by what the band is doing and is mostly confused like. We really sometimes take for granted just how experimental and strange music in the mid 60s was compared to what people had prior to that- and I feel like it would be really easy to just write it as if everything seemed immediately amazing and incredible to john and have him be 100% on board because it's all so iconic and amazing to us. But it makes it so much more realistic for him to question it and not really understand why the guitar needs to be reversed, or why paul can write like that. I just really love and appreciate the angle you took and i'm looking forward to seeing how the story progresses!!

🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

What a lovely thoughtful message!!! No seriously, I love this so much because every time I start writing intensely about the music in my story I'm worried I'm losing people since it isn't a typical subject matter in fic, so it's amazing to see people are interested in that aspect!!!

If you want my take on this (because apparently I apply death of the author to myself), I think the main thing John doesn't quite get is that, as he's mainly a stage performer with his mindset being from 1962, music to him is something very immediate and the grueling process of recording little guitar snippets that'll sound a certain way when reversed is entirely contrary to that conception. He also doesn't have a concept of recording different parts of the song separately to build one finished product, so there's the inherent collaboration of their live shows missing there too. It's hard to envision the finished product when you've taken it apart and are perfecting each piece of the puzzle individually.

I also generally find it really interesting to consider how context really affects our subjective opinions on things (which appears again in the latest chapter with a certain song :) ).

Anyways thanks again for taking the time to write me, it makes me soooooooooo happy to see people engaging with my story like that!!!

#seriously im all warm and ugh thank you #(especially since I've sort of been in a bad mood today) #<3 #music talk #fic #fave #ask #anon

[brother-hermes]

Are you willing to share your thoughts on sex outside of marriage? I am curious of your perspective as you’ve written before about celibacy. Would sexual immorality be considered any sex before marriage? Is it still considered adultery between two consenting adults if neither one of them is married? Or is it possible to have a divine union without a man made marriage certificate?

Wow. Straight up dangerous territory.

The King James Version took a harsh line on the term porneia- like they decided it was fornication without understanding Koine Greek. That variation of Greek is what the New Testament is written in. We now understand that porneia means harlotry- like adultery and incest- so we go with sexual immorality as a blanket term. This is a problem for traditional churches because it’s too open ended. As in, sexual immorality could be meaningless sex to multiple partners to one person and masturbating to pornography while in a committed relationship to another. It puts the passages regarding our sexuality in the field of the subjective opening it up to interpretation. Sprinkle in the NIV going with marital unfaithfulness or infidelity and it’s no wonder we have confusion.

The broader context of Pauls writing seems to define sexual immorality as anything outside of marriage. Women were bought at a dowry back then and were practically property too though. Some of the other writings suggest that one shouldn’t get involved with people outside of their Faith- a house divided and what not. It’s a very sticky subject.

I, being an abstract thinker, view the Bible as an allegory meant to be interpreted by the reader as a means of drawing us closer to the source of all being- to God. That being said, I view the Song Of Solomon and all of the Apostle Pauls writing on the union between men and women as spiritual instructions on unifying feminine and masculine energy within us. I’d probably confuse you attempting to explain that so it’ll be a later thing.

Sex is natural. We are all here because two people decided to share themselves with each other. The moral question comes into play when we ask ourselves why. Some people seek to release their frustrations into another or use them as objects. Some people use sex as a means to get things that they want. When we look at it in that perspective sexual immorality makes sense. We are taking something sacred- the ability to create life, the ability to join with another and share our very essence- and turning it into something meaningless. But… if it’s between two consenting adults planning a life together, then what immorality are we even talking about?

What does sexual immorality look like to you? That’s what I would ask myself. I would pray on why I want to explore my sexuality and discuss it with my partner. Then, I’d find someone who’s completely against it and hear why they have taken such a hard line on it. Read the passages yourself. Follow the notes that lead to other scriptures and dissect them. Whatever you do, just stay prayed up and don’t look at yourself with disgust for feeling a natural desire. Sex is completely normal and I loathe how some of us have been made to feel by our Christian upbringing.

Personally, I’m celibate because I haven’t overcome my own personal problems yet. I’ve been horribly codependent in the past and am overcoming a mountain of traumas. Until I’ve completely surrendered to God- and I mean 100% surrendered- I have no business projecting my insecurities onto anyone else. I don’t masturbate and watch pornography because it changes the way I view others. It’s hard, for me- I can’t speak on everyone, to look past the flesh of a person and see them for who they are if I’m constantly watching streams of perfectly shaped people airbrushed to perfection. It also clouds my spiritual practice and messes with my ability to concentrate- problems I’ve never had in relationships. So, I made a personal decision to serve God with mind, body and soul and await further instruction- getting therapy and working through traumas and meeting my spiritual director in the meantime. It’s a process, not a rigorous dogma I’d expect anyone to live up to.

Take away- what is sexual immorality? How would you define it? How will expressing yourself sexually add to your life? What would you be giving up? Pray on it and study the scriptures a bit. Just remember: SEX ISN’T SOME AWFUL THING.

#sexuality #asks #christianish perspective

[route22ny]

What My Korean Father Taught Me About Defending Myself in America

Born in 1939 during what would be the last years of the Japanese colonial occupation of Korea, my father, Choung Tai Chee, also called Charles or Chuck or Charlie, came to the United States in 1960. He was flashy, cocky, unafraid, it seemed, of anything. Wherever we were in the world, he seemed at home, right up until near the end of his life, when he was hospitalized after a car accident that left him in a coma. Only in that hospital bed, his head shaved for surgery, did he look out of place to me.

A tae kwon do champion by the age of 18 in Korea, he had begun studying martial arts at age 8, eventually teaching them as a way to put himself through graduate school, first in engineering and then oceanography, in Texas, California, and Rhode Island. He loved the teaching. The rising popularity of martial arts in the 1960s in Hollywood meant he made celebrity friends like Frank Sinatra Jr., Paul Lynde, Sal Mineo, and Peter Fonda, who my father said had fixed him up on a date with his sister, Jane, in the days before Barbarella. A favorite photo from his time in Texas shows him flying through the air, a human horseshoe, each of his bare feet breaking a board held shoulder high on each side by his students.

When I complained about my wet boots during the winters growing up in Maine, he told me stories about running barefoot in the snow in Korea to harden his feet for tae kwon do. His answer to many of my childhood complaints was usually that I had to be tougher, stronger, prepared for any attack or disaster. The lesson his generation took from those they lost to the Korean War was that death was always close, and I know now that he was doing all he could to teach me to protect myself. When I cried at the beach at the water’s edge, afraid of the waves, he threw me in. “No son of mine is going to be afraid of the ocean,” he said. When I first started swimming lessons, he told me I had to be a strong swimmer, in case the boat I was on went down, so I could swim to shore. When he taught me to body-surf, he taught me about how to know the approach of an undertow, and how to survive a riptide. When I lacked a competitive streak, he took to racing me at something I loved—swimming underwater while holding my breath. I was an asthmatic child, but soon, intent on beating him, I could swim 50 yards this way at a time.

For all of that, he was an exceedingly gentle father. He took me snorkeling on his back, when I was five, telling me we were playing at being dolphins. There he taught me the names of the fish along the reef where we lived in Guam. He would praise the highlights in my hair, and laugh, calling me “Apollo.” And as for any pressure regarding my future career, he offered something very rare for a Korean man of his generation. “Be whatever you want to be,” he told me. “Just be the best at it that you can possibly be.”

Only when I was older did I understand the warning about being strong enough to swim to shore in another context, when I learned the boat he and his family had fled in from what was about to become North Korea nearly sank in a storm. In Seoul as a child, he scavenged food for his family with his older brother, coming home with bags of rice found on overturned military supply trucks, while his father went to the farms, collecting gleanings. His attempts to teach me to strip a chicken clean of its meat make a different sense now. I had thought of him as an immigrant without thinking about how the Korean War made him one of the dispossessed, almost a refugee, all before he left Korea.

When I began getting into fights as a child in the U.S., he put me into classes in karate and tae kwon do for these same reasons. He loved me and he wanted me to be strong. I just wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take on a whole country.

We moved to Maine in 1973, when I was six years old. My father had taken us back to Korea after I was born, to work for his father, and then moved us around the Pacific—from Seoul to the islands of Truk, Kawaii, and Guam, in his and my mother’s attempts to set up a fisheries company. Maine was his next experiment, and not coincidentally, my mother’s home state. On my first day of the first grade, in the cafeteria, after a morning spent in what seemed like reasonably friendly classes, my troubles began when I went up to take an empty seat at a table and the blond haired, blue-eyed white boy seated there looked up with some alarm and asked me, “Are you a chink?”

“What’s a chink?” I asked, though I knew it wasn’t a compliment. I had never heard this word before.

“A Chinese person. You look like a chink. Is that why your face is so flat?”

This was also the first day I can remember being insulted about my appearance.

“I am not Chinese,” I said that day, naively. In a few years I would learn I was in fact part Chinese, 41 generations back, but at that moment, I tried to explain to him about how I was half Korean, a nationality and situation he had never heard of before. Half of what? And so this was also the first day I had to explain myself to someone who didn’t care, who had already decided against me.

He was a white boy from America, and he was repeating insults that seem to me to have come from a secret book passed out to white children everywhere in this country, telling them to call someone Asian “Chink,” to walk up to them, muttering “Ching-chong, ching-chong.” To sing a song, “My mother’s Chinese, my father’s Japanese, I’m all mixed up,” pulling their eyes first down and then up and then alternating up and down.

I was struck, watching Minari a few months ago, when the film’s Korean immigrant protagonist, David, is asked by a white boy in Arkansas in the 1980s why his face is so flat. “It’s not,” David says, forcefully—so many of us have this memory of someone saying this to us and responding that way. Why did a boy in Arkansas and a boy in Maine, in their small towns thousands of miles apart, before the internet, each know to make this insult?

When I got home from that first day at school, I asked my mother what the word “Chink” meant, and she flinched and covered her mouth in concern.

“Who said that to you?” she asked, and I told her. I don’t remember the conversation that followed, just the swift look of concern on her face. The sense that something had found us.

I was the only Asian-American student at my school in 1973, and the first many of my classmates had ever met. When my brother joined me at school three years later, he was the second. When my sister arrived, four years after him, she was the third. My mother is white, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed American, born in Maine to a settler family. I have six ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War, but none of them had to fight this. I don’t know how to separate the teasing, harassment, and bullying that marked my 12 years of life there from that first racist welcome. It makes me question whether I really had a “temper” as a child, as I was told, or whether I was merely isolated by racism among racists, afraid and angry?

My father dealt with racism throughout most of his life by acting as if it had never happened—as if admitting it made it more powerful. He knew bullies loved to see their victims react and would tell me to not let what they said upset me. “Why do you care what they think of you?” he would say, and laugh as he clapped me on the shoulder. “They’re all going to work for you someday.”

“Don’t get even, get ahead,” was another of his slogans for me at these times. As if America was a race we were going to win.

Two decades after his death, writing in my diary while on a subway in New York City, I began counting off all of my activities as a child—choir, concert band, swimming, karate and tae kwon do, clarinet, indoor track, downhill and cross country skiing—and I asked myself if my parents were trying to raise Batman. Then I looked down to the insignia on my Batman t-shirt, and I laughed.

These lessons my father gave me—to be the best you can be, to fight off your enemies and defeat them, to swim to safety if the boat sinks, and in general toughen yourself against everything that would harm you—these I had absorbed alongside certain unspoken lessons, taken from observing his life as a Korean immigrant. To have two names, one American, known to the public, and one Korean, known only to a few intimates; to get rid of your accent; and to dress well as a way to keep yourself above suspicion. Did I need to train like a superhero just to be a person in America? Maybe.

But if I thought of superheroes, it was because my father was like one to me, training me to be like him.

One legend I heard about my father when I was growing up is the story of a night he was being held up at gunpoint, while he was unpacking his car. Whoever it was asked him to shut the trunk and turn around and raise his hands in the air. He agreed to, slamming the car trunk down so forcefully, he sank his fingertips into the metal.

By the time he turned around, the would-be stick-up artist was gone.

He would often ask me and my brother to punch him, as hard as we could, in his stomach. He was proud of his abdominal strength—it was like punching a wall. We would shake our hands, howling, and he would laugh and rub our heads. One time he even used it as a gag to stop a bully.

A boy on my street had developed the habit of changing the rules during our games if his team started losing. We had fights over it that could be heard up and down the street, and one day I chased him with a Wiffle bat, him laughing as I ran. My father stepped in the next time he tried to change the rules during a game and prevented it, telling him all games in his yard had to have the same rules at the beginning as the end—you couldn’t change them when you were losing. When the boy got mad, he said, “I bet you want to hit me, you should hit me. You’ll feel better. Hit me right here, in the stomach, as hard as you can.”

The boy hauled off and punched my dad in the stomach. I knew what was coming. The boy went home crying, shaking his hand at the pain. His mom came over and they had a talk. The rule-changing stopped.

I tried teasing my classmates back after being told to by my father. Stand-up as self-defense requires practice, though: During a “Where are you from?” exercise in the second grade, I told my classmates and teacher I had “Made in Korea” stamped on my ass, which elicited shocked laughter and a punishment from my teacher. I remember the glee when I called a classmate an ignoramus, and he didn’t know what it meant—and got angrier and angrier when I wouldn’t tell him, demanding that I explain the insult. When told to go back to where I came from, I said, “You first.”

Increasingly, I just hid, in the library, in books. When given detention, I exulted in the chance to be alone and read. I was an advanced student compared to my classmates, due in part to my mother being a schoolteacher, and I learned to make my intelligence a weapon.

The day several boys held me down on my street and ran their bicycles over my legs, to see if I could take it, as if maybe I wasn’t human, that felt like some new horrible level. I don’t remember how that ended or if I ever told anyone, just the feeling of the bicycle tires rolling over the skin of my legs. The day I bragged about my father being a martial artist to my classmates, they locked me in the bathroom and told me to fight my way out with kung fu, calling me “Hong Kong Phooey,” after the cartoon character, as they held the door shut. This was the fourth grade. After I got out of that bathroom and went home, I told my father about it, and he told me it was time to take tae kwon do. I had to learn to defend myself.

I would never be like him, never break boards like him, but for a while, I tried. I still cherish the day he gave me my first gi and showed me how to tie it. I learned I had a natural flexibility, which meant I could easily kick high, and I took pride in my roundhouse and reverse roundhouse kicks. But after a few years, my father took issue with a story he’d heard about my teacher’s arrogance toward his opponents, and he pulled me out of the classes. “It is very dangerous to teach in that spirit,” he told me. And he said something I would never forget. “The best fighter in tae kwon do never fights,” he said. “He always finds another way.”

I have thought about this for a long time. For the ordinary practitioner, tae kwon do and karate prepare you to go about your life, aware of what to do in case of assault. They offer no guarantee, just chances for preparedness in the face of the violence of others as well as the violence within yourself. At the time I felt my father was describing the responsibility that comes with knowing how to hurt someone, but I came to understand it as a principled if conditional non-violence, which, in this year of quarantine and rising racist violence, is one of the clearest legacies he left to me.

Like many of us, I have been trying to write about these most recent attacks on Asian-Americans, some of them in my old neighborhood in New York, and I keep starting and stopping. How do we protect ourselves and those we love? Can writing do that? I know I learned to use my intelligence as a weapon to keep myself safe from racists, starting as a child, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough. The violence is like a puzzle with many moving parts, but the stakes are life and death. “You’re really going to homework your way through this one?” I keep asking myself. The people attacking Asians and Asian Americans now are like the boy I met on my first day in the first grade. They don’t care whether or not we are actually Chinese—the primary experience Asian Americans have in common is mis-identification. The person who gets a patriotic ego boost off of calling me a “chink” isn’t going to check if they’re right about me, and I don’t imagine they’ll stop their fist or their gun if I say, “You’re just doing this because of America’s history of war in Asia,” even though we both know this is true. And so I have been thinking of my father and what he taught me.

The most overt way my father fought racism in front of me involved no fighting at all. He founded a group called the Korean American Friendship Association of Maine, which helped new Korean immigrants move to Maine and find work, community, and housing, along with offering lessons on how to open bank accounts, pay taxes, file immigration paperwork, and get drivers’ licenses. For both of my parents, community organizing, activism, and mutual aid like this were commitments they shared and enjoyed and passed along to us, their children, and this led to much of my own work as an activist, teacher, and writer. I am not my father, but I am much as he made me.

There’s a difference between fighting racists and fighting racism. Where my father stayed silent, I have learned I have to speak out, which has felt, even while writing this, a little like betraying him. And as a biracial gay Korean American man, I don’t experience the same identifications or misidentifications he did. I am mistaken for white, or at least “not Asian,” as often as I’m mistaken for Chinese, and have felt like a secret agent as people speak in front of me about Asians in ways they would not otherwise. I learned most of my adult coping strategies for street violence from queer activist organizations after college.

Even as I write, “I wonder if he ever felt fear living in America,” it feels like a betrayal, especially as he isn’t around for me to ask him. I think again about how my father always made a point of dressing well, for example, but it always felt like more than that. Men wearing suits as a kind of armor, that isn’t so strange. He had his suits made at J. Press, wore handmade English leather shoes—shoes that fit me. I sometimes wear them for special occasions. Among my favorite objects of his is a monogrammed J. Press canvas briefcase, the name “CHEE” in embossed leather between the straps. After his father gave him an Omega Constellation watch when I was born, he eventually acquired others. For a time I thought he did this aspirationally, but most of his family in Korea is like this: Well-dressed, with a preference for tailoring and handmade clothes. All of my memories of my uncles coming from the airport to visit us involve them arriving in their blazers.

The first time I followed my father’s advice to wear a sports jacket when flying, I received a spontaneous upgrade. I didn’t have frequent flyer miles and the person checking me in was not flirting with me either. There was nothing but the moment of grace, and the feeling that my father, from beyond the grave, was making a point as I sat down in my new, larger, more spacious seat. Because I had never tried out this advice while he was alive.

Like much of my father’s advice, it came from his keen awareness of social contexts, and it worked. His wardrobe came from the pleasure of a dare more than a disguise. You don’t acquire a black and gold silk brocade smoking jacket in suburban Maine because you want to fit in with your white neighbors. Sometimes his clothes were a charm offensive, sometimes just a sass. The jacket advice may well have been an anticipation of racist treatment, of a piece with perfecting his English so he had no accent, and raising us to speak only English. My mother spoke more Korean to us as children than he did—a remnant of her time living in Seoul.

Now that I am old enough to choose to learn Korean, I still feel like a child disobeying him, just as I do when I dress too casually, or acknowledge that I’ve experienced racism. I know I am just making different choices, as you do when you are grown, but also, I am stepping out from behind his program to protect myself. I feel the fears he never spoke about, and instead simply addressed with what now look like tactics. At these moments I miss him as much as I ever do, but especially for how I would tell him, this may have protected you. It won’t protect me.

In my kitchen the other day, as I was making coffee, I fell into the ready stance, with my right foot back, left foot forward, and snapped my right leg up and out in a front snap kick. This is the basic first kick you learn in tae kwon do. And you do it again, and again, and again, until it is muscle memory. You move across the room this way and then turn to begin again.

I wasn’t sure if my form was exactly right, but it felt good. Memories came back of the sweaty smell of the practice room, the other students, the mirrors on the walls, the fluorescent lights. All those years ago, I had thought my father had put me in those classes in order to become him, but as I sent my practice kicks through the air, I remembered how even learning them made me feel safer, protected at least by the knowledge that he loved me. I could not have said this at the time, but after those attacks, I had feared I wasn’t strong enough to be his son.

I still fear that. I suppose it drives me, even now. It is dehumanizing to insist on your humanity, even and perhaps especially now, and so I am not doing that here. Each time I’ve tried to write even this, a rage takes over, and then the only thing I want to do with my hands doesn’t involve writing, and I stop. But I know from learning to fight that hitting someone else means using yourself to do it. My father’s advice, about fighting being the last resort, has given me another lesson: You turn yourself into the weapon when you strike someone else—in the end, another way to erase yourself—and so you do that last. In the meantime, you fight that first fight with yourself, for yourself.

You may never be able to protect what you love, but at least you can try. At least you will be ready.

Alexander Chee is most recently the author of the essay collection How to Write an Autobiographical Novel. A novelist and essayist, he teaches at Dartmouth College and lives in Vermont.

#asian-american #anti-asian hate #racism in america #alexander chee #long reads

[laddieseddiemunster]

Little Sister (platonic)

This is for the anon who gave me the ask about a 13/14 year old that the boys accidentally turn, and they like to sneak out a lot. I kind of lost your ask but if you see this than this fic is for you.

context: the boys accidentally turn a 13 year old that likes to sneak out a lot, but the boys soon realize that she’s not a bad addition to their group.

warnings: mentions of alcoholism & violence

the boys hadn’t meant for this to happen. they didn’t even know you. they just came back from the boardwalk one day and saw a kid passed out on their couch. not exactly a kid. more like a young teen. marko was about to take a bite out of you before he noticed you didn’t smell human. you smelled like they did. well half. part vampire blood and part human. david had noticed that their glass with the blood in it had been misplaced. the boys put the pieces together and realized you drank the blood. david still wanted answers, so he woke you up by using some mind tricks. 

you woke up with a groan while holding a hand to your chest. “what was in that drink?” you asked pointing to the broken glass on the floor.

david bent down to pick up some of the broken glass. “you drank this?”

“yeah! what was in it? it tasted awful!” you asked them rubbing your eyes.

“who are you? what are you doing here?” paul asked not ready to explain to you what exactly you just drank.

“who are you guys?” you asked back.

“i asked you first,” paul snapped.

you rolled your eyes knowing you were going to have to start from the beginning. you were a runaway. your parents were alcoholics and you couldn’t take their crap anymore so you left. while looking for a place to stay you found the cave, and obviously all the “do not enter!” signs made you want to investigate more. when you came in the cave you were super thirsty and ended up finding the glass of blood. you assumed it was wine or something, but when you drank it it tasted horrible. soon after you felt a pain in your chest and you passed out on the couch.

all the boys looked at each other wondering how the hell they were going to explain to you what you just drank.

“so uhh, what’s your name kid?” marko asked sitting next to you on the couch.

“[name], and i’m not a kid! i’m 13,” you replied.

“13? that’s still a kid,” paul chuckled.

you rolled your eyes. “whatever. what are your names?”

paul decided to take charge while david walked away thinking of a way to explain this to max. “well, i’m paul!” he said holding his hand to his chest. he pointed to marko that was sitting next to you. “that’s marko.” he then pointed to dwayne who still hadn’t said a word. “dwayne.”

“who’s the mullet guy?” you questioned.

“im david,” you jumped as he suddenly appeared right behind you.

“so...do you guys live here?” you asked looking away from david.

“yep,” david explained the whole incident that happened years before.

dwayne still hadn’t spoken and even refused to look at you. he was worried about you, and the explanation they were going to have to give to max was making him anxious. paul was worried, but he tried to act like nothing was going on. marko was still processing it all, and did not want to be the one to tell you what was in that drink.

“okay great. now what was in that drink?” you were smart enough to know that they changed the subject on purpose.

“[name], try to understand this,” david paused. “we’re not...human.”

you scoffed thinking this was some prank. “oh really?”

“what you drank was blood,” david paused again. “my blood.”

“EW!” you exclaimed jumping from the couch. “thats disgusting! you have to be lying!”

“it’s true,” paul spoke as he sat on the couchs armrest.

you shivered in disgust. “why did you have your blood in a bottle in the first place!”

“we’re not human,” david repeated. “we’re vampires...and so are you.”

“i’m a what?” you asked not understanding what they were trying to tell you.

david knew that you wouldn’t believe them if they just told you, so he turned around and when he turned back he was completely transformed into his vamp face.

you gasped and jumped back trying to get away from david, but instead you landed in marko’s lap. he grabbed your shoulders tightly so you couldn’t get away.

“this is what we are [name],” david said and changed back into his regular form. “this is what you are.”

“h-how,” you whimpered holding onto marko for some sort of protection.

“in that bottle was my blood,” david said while taking a step closer to you. “i am a vampire,” he took another step. “and you drank my blood,” another, “so now you’re a vampire,” david said while standing over you.

“is...is that true?” you asked paul who was still sitting on the armrest.

“yep! now you’re our little sister!” he said with a big smile on his face.

“sister?” you asked.

“you’re one of us now, so now you stay with us,” david said with a slight smirk on his face.

“but i don’t want to! i don’t even know you guys!” you said getting up from marko’s lap.

“well maybe you should think twice before drinking something from a random cave,” david said. he wasn’t wrong. for all you knew the drink could have been 100 years old and rotten. now that you think about it, it probably is.

“marko!” david spoke stopping your daydreaming. “show [name] her room.”

marko grabbed your arm leading you to the room. it wasn’t far from the main area in the middle of the cave, so there was really no privacy at all. the room was pretty plain. just a bed and some blankets covering the entrance.

“is this kidnapping?” you asked him and sat on the bed.

marko chuckled. “not necessarily.”

“it sure seems like it.”

“well its not.”

“then what it is?” you asked.

“you drank the blood, so now you’re automatically one of us!” you could tell he was getting frustrated.

“what if i don’t want this?!” you asked raising your voice at him.

marko sighed and looked to the ground. “look, i’m sorry if you didn’t want this, but we can’t change it now.”

“you’re telling me that there is no way i can change back?” you asked him.

marko just shook his head and left the room. you laid down on the bed trying to take in everything that they just told you. first, you ran away from home. second, you walked into the worst cave you could’ve ever chosen. third, now apparently you’re a vampire.

as a couple days went on the boys taught you how to calm to urge to eat people, they explained to you that you were half, and then david explained that eventually you will have to kill someone or you’ll be half forever. david isn’t very patient, so when you asked for some time before you make your first kill he wasn’t too happy about it. david has been killing people for decades, so to him it’s no big deal.

at first the boys thought your addition wouldn’t be too hard. then they realized you were a bit of a handful. not even a week with the boys and you had already snuck out twice. the first time you didnt get caught because it was during the day. the second time you did. your friends had told you before you became a vamp that they were having a party, and you weren’t one to miss a party. so you left while the boys were still asleep, and you were planning on coming back to the cave before they woke up. unfortunately, you lost track of time and when they woke up they noticed your disappearance right away.

david was furious. he hates when people don’t do what he says, and especially when it’s people he lives with. he is also slightly worried because a non experienced half vamp could be dangerous. dwayne was more worried about your safety since you’re pretty young, paul was upset that you didn’t follow orders, and marko was worried that you might have ran into hunters or you were badly hurt.

the boys found you pretty much right away. all they had to do was track your scent in the air and follow it. a vampires scent stands out in a group of people. the party was full of young and some older teens. even though the boys are the feared motorcycle gang of santa carla they still managed to get into the house party. david was determined to find you, and nobody better try and stop him.

when the boys found you they basically had to drag you out of there. you didn’t want to leave and they weren’t in the mood to argue. you knew you were going to have to come up with some explanation on why you left the party with a bunch of boys to your friends. dwayne, paul, and marko knew that david was going to let you have it when they returned to the cave, and he did just that.

“why did you leave the cave without permission?! you know that unacceptable!” david yelled loudly scaring marko’s pigeons.

“i went to a party, and because i felt like it,” you said not caring that you were breaking rules.

“you’re on thin ice kid!” david yelled again as the other boys watched from a distance.

“oh yeah? what are you gonna do kill me?” you were pushing his buttons and you knew it. “well guess what? i didn’t choose to be here, so i don’t have to do what you say!”

as time went by fights would happen almost daily, and there was never really a winner. david would usually get tired of yelling and just ignore you for the rest of the night. he still cares about you, but you refused to obey his orders. the boys stopped trying to prevent you from sneaking out. for once, they just gave up and let you do what you wanted.

it was great at first being able to do what you wanted, but that came to an end when your friends started to make rumors about you. it turns out that your friends were jealous that you hung around with the boys, so they decided to talk bad about you behind your back by saying you were sleeping with all of them. soon all your so called friends were no longer looking your way, and that means goodbye party’s. everyone believed the rumors and thought you were sleeping with four older boys.

the boys noticed that you hadnt gone out in a while, but they decided not to ask any questions. you guys still weren’t on good terms, and the boys didn’t want to make the relationships any worse then they already were. marko was the first one to find out about what happened. he had gone out on his usual chinese food run and he came into your room to give you some food he saw you crying softly on your bed. “what’s the matter lil sis?”

when you told marko exactly what happened he was ready to go out and feed from your friends. even if you weren’t on good terms with him you’re still his little sister, and no one hurts you and gets away with it.

instead of letting him murder your friend you decided to take matters into your own hands, and he knew what that meant.

before you took the matter into your own hands you wanted to mend your relationships with the other boys. if they’re the only people/vamps that still care about you then you mine as well get used to them. dwayne is probably the easiest one to gain trust of again. he understood that you are just a kid, and you want to live your life. dwayne isn’t one to make you try hard for his acceptance. a simple apology and you’re already on his good side. paul and marko pretty much go the same way. they really don’t take anything too personal, so if you make them upset they’ll just get over it in like an hour. david is a bit more difficult. he doesn’t like people doing things without his permission. which is exactly what you did. when you apologized for sneaking out all he said was “okay,” and nothing else. he didn’t even look up at you. even if the apology wasn’t enough you already had a plan to gain his acceptance.

“i’m ready to make my first kill,” you said out of the blue. all of the boys stopped whatever they were doing and looked directly at you.

paul immediately grew a smile when he realized you weren’t kidding. “really little sis? you’re ready to become one of us?”

you nodded with a smile.

“are you sure this is what you want?” dwayne asked you. he wanted you to turn, but he didn’t want it if you didn’t.

“yes. i’m sure,” you confirmed.

“well, then what are we waiting for?” marko asked with his mischievous smile making an appearance.

before the boys could pick out a random person on the beach for you to kill, you told them that this was a revenge kill. you wanted revenge on your fake friends that spread a rumor about you. they weren’t about to get away with it.

the boys were eager to watch this go down, so they came up with a plan. marko and paul would find your old friends at the boardwalk and use charm to win them over. once your friends had been won over by the blondes then they’ll take them to the bonfire for a “party”. and that’s where you’ll be waiting to strike.

you knew your “friends” wouldn’t say no to marko and paul. they were just dying to go on a date with one of them.

when you were waiting for the big arrival with david and dwayne you suddenly heard the sound of two motorcycles coming up to your location, and marko and paul whooping.

“remember, this is your first kill. it doesn’t have to be too gory. if you need help just tell us,” dwayne said.

“dwayne, enough.” david said and dwayne stopped talking. david walked up right behind you and whispered, “remember how much they hurt you. remember how much pain they put you through. make them pay for what they did to you. they deserve it.”

anger took over your body and you couldn’t even hear what david was saying anymore. all you could think of is how they just dropped you because they were jealous. now, it’s your turn to drop them from the face of the earth.

suddenly, your vampire face that you kept hidden so well was now out for the world to see, and you were ready for revenge. you could smell their blood in the air as they walked up to the bonfire seeing no party. before you knew it you were jumping the one that was closest to you and biting their skin as deep as you could. you could taste their blood in your mouth as you sucked the life out of them. it was a taste that you never wanted to leave your mouth, but you weren’t finished yet.

your other “friends” were now running for their lives, but you easily caught up to them. one by one you drained the blood out of each of their bodies while ripping their arms and legs to hear them scream. they were all left lifeless, skin white as the full moon, and completely torn apart. you were satisfied. it’s like you were born for this. you felt alive even though you clearly weren’t. with blood all over your face and body you turned back at the boys.

they all looked speechless. they expected you to ask for their help, or to even struggle a little bit. you did the exact opposite. you didn’t need their help at all.

paul was the first one to walk up to you. he picked you up from under the arms and spun you around. “damn lil sis! you’re a natural!”

“yeah!” marko chuckled. “who taught you that?” none of their first victims were killed liked you killed yours.

“how do you feel? any different?” dwayne asked.

“yeah.” you said wiping some blood on your clothes. “different. not sure how to explain it.”

“don’t worry. you’ll get used to it,” paul said patting you on the shoulder.

david walked up to you and put his hands on your bloody cheeks. he looked down directly in your eyes. “congratulations [name]. you’re officially full. you’re one of us.”

#the lost boys #the lost boys david #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys paul #the lost boys marko #the lost boys star #the lost boys 1987 #frog brothers #david the lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #paul the lost boys #marko the lost boys #the lost boys x reader

[silleye]

!! If you’re looking for oc asks! What are the tragector’s relationships like with the other mercs on their team (it doesn’t have to be both you can just do one HEBDHWBH) Do they have some theyd consider themselves closer to than the others ?? Close friendships?

Ok so I actually have a LOT written about them o-(-< … but the short version of this is that both trajectors are on pretty good terms with everyone, but they're the closest with the medics and spies for lore-related reasons! They’ve been around in the Gravel Wars the most out of everyone, so the team respects them for their experience. However, the trajectors are more involved in the war than most would think, and as a result try to keep a relative distance from the team, since they’re still working to keep a stalemate between the two factions (well, up until Gray Mann came along and messed everything up :P).

For BLU, V can be seen as a parental figure of sorts since she’s pretty straightforward and willing to give advice based on her experience; she has a reduced affect that makes it hard to read emotions, but she’s approachable once you get past it. However, for RED, Coda kinda just does their own thing and can be found in their workshop often; they don’t really like interacting much with others out of anxiety and can also be awkward at times, but they mean well :)

Anyways here’s a TLDR of their relations with their team:

RED Trajector (Coda):

Closest with Spy, Medic, Pyro, and Heavy

Close but not the closest with Engineer and Demoman

Friendly with Scout, Soldier, and Sniper

BLU Trajector (V):

Closest with Spy, Medic, Scout, and Engineer

Close but not the closest with Soldier, Heavy, and Sniper

Friendly with Demoman and Pyro

I'm still thinking of this more in-depth, but if you're interested in reading about their relationships with Medic and Spy and more of the Trajectors' backstories (since they're closest because of lore-related reasons) there's more below :0

For context, V and Coda are technically celestials and two ocs I took from a personal project to throw into TF2 for fun! They're also immortal :P... The two of them travel around in different AUs as a way to regain some familiarity in life as a human and to find a way to cure their condition. Eventually they stumble onto the TF2 universe and realize that there's a LOT of weird stuff here that can help them understand more about the power behind their celestial status (I call it Null for now). Coincidentally, Australium is a type of Null that found its way in the TF2 universe thanks to a certain angel Coda knows about, and through a complicated series of events, V and Coda found and was hired by the Administrator in her early years to kick off the Gravel Wars at the very beginning. They’ve been around in Teufort for a While now and also used to work directly under the Administrator before Miss Pauling came along…

The reason why they’re the closest with the medics + spies is related to them being immortal lol

Medic:

I’m assuming that both RED and BLU Medics are pretty much the same in personality and traits, so this kinda applies to both :0

V has always found the medics interesting; all three generations had medical knowledge and skills beyond their times, so to her, they’re the closest they’ve ever gotten to understanding immortality and if there’s a way to “fix” it. The Medic in particular caught V’s attention; she’s aware that there’s something up with Medic’s soul and is also intrigued by just how eccentric he is compared to the other medics. Like, who goes around stealing their teammates souls and making contracts with the devil and also how the hell does uber work???

Anyways, V’s fascinated by the medics and often hangs out around them to learn more about their work. Which eventually led to some shenanigans and a strong friendship forming over time, though Medic’s still a bit disappointed that V doesn’t let him experiment on her :(

Also on a related note, crows tend to like V for whatever reason when she’s around… which makes for some interesting interactions with Medic’s doves.

For Coda, pretty much the same thing applies as above, though they also find Medic funny and just hangs out around him often because he’s an interesting guy who’s done a lot of shady work in the past (and continues to do so). The two of them share a funky sense of humor together :)

Spy:

With Spy and Trajector, their relationship started off as a rivalry of sorts; Spy’s determined to figure out what the hell is up with these Trajectors and why they get special treatment from the Administrator, while Trajectors are well aware of this.

Their first few interactions felt a bit forced, but over time, it turned more and more into a genuine(ish) friendship between the two.

Also there’s a whole separate thing I have for BLU Spy in particular, since he was some weird unkillable head for a while LOL

Coda initially found the BLU Spy as a head in Medic’s fridge… After chatting with him for a bit, Coda agrees to find a way to kill and return him to BLU normally.

Somehow (I’m not sure yet how but somehow) he gets back to normal.. And life on the battlefield resumes just how it has been before. They’re still enemies and also can be seen as rivals since they pick on each other more often then the other mercs, but there’s just something with how the BLU Spy can relate to being unable to die that links him to the Trajectors in a way different from most other people… which eventually spirals into more interactions and conversations between them :P

Anyways! Medic, Spy, and Trajector have the most potential regarding relationship stuff and I constantly switch between shipping them with each other (they're my ot3?? ot4?? technically ot6 if you include different colors???? i have no idea anymore hgjhfhgk). Overall I think they are neat :)

#current mood is the gif of that guy with a whiteboard explaining things in a hurried manner #SORRY THIS IS... A LOT OF WRITING ABOUT MOSTLY OC CONTENT IVE NEVER TALKED ABOUT BEFORE AAAAA BUT TY FOR READING THIS FAR IF YOU DID!!! #tf2 oc #tf2 trajector #tf2 tenth class #ask #team fortress 2 #tf2 #AND TY FOR SENDING IN THE ASK I FORGOT TO MENTION THAT EARILER BJGHDFKJGHKJDHKGJH

[tocrackerboxpalace]

Le Rêve - Part 7

Summary: A struggle to respond to John's confession from part 6.

Rating: T (smut warning)

Edit: This is part 7/8. Ending to come soon!

Paul froze. John’s breath hitched sharply, as if he couldn’t really believe that was what came out, either. Both boys stared at each other in stunned silence as the words hung in the air like snowflakes between them.

I love you.

In any other context, it may have been brushed off as a faux pas, an embarrassing slip of the tongue. Paul could make a “What am I, your girlfriend?” joke, and it would go over quite well with the others: “Geo! Ritchie! John’s said he loves me!” And John would flinch before scowling as they called back, “What are you, his girlfriend?” and collapsed in a fit of laughter. That’s what should have happened.

But Paul took one look into John’s eyes and saw that there was nothing unintentional about the expression. The utterance itself, maybe, but not its truth.

It felt strange, hearing such a thing from John’s lips. It wasn’t something that they said to each other. Because they were mates, because they were men, because of Liverpool and because of the 1960’s and because of deep-rooted ideologies and opinions and etc., etc. Of course, nothing between them was rather normal anymore, but there was something peculiar about the confession—or, rather, the confession’s effect. Paul wasn’t sure if it caused one completely foreign emotion or an overpowering combination of many: it pained his heart but also made it skip a beat, dizzied his mind but also quieted his fears, churned his stomach but also sent in butterflies. It made him want to cry in more ways than one. Never before had he felt such a strong reaction to such simple words.

John loved him.

He wasn’t sure what was expected of him in response. The thought annoyed him a bit, eliciting a familiar feeling of hopeless desperation. What did John think was going to happen? What was he hoping to gain by saying it? To make Paul stay?

And then what?

“I’m sorry.” John’s sudden voice, cutting through the tense air.

That’s when the realization struck him that John might not have meant it. Paul began to feel dizzy. If this was all a sick joke, an empty outburst, he’d have to reconcile his own response to it. He’d thought he’d seen the answer in John’s eyes, but what did he know anymore? It seemed like every chance he got now, he misread the man. Why would this be any different?

Paul felt a nauseating lurch in his stomach as he stared at the man in front of him—the man whom of which he hardly recognized. Before this catastrophe had started, Paul would have sworn that he knew John better than anyone else. He’d challenged lads, albeit indirectly, on the very topic growing up; he was always the first to guess John’s whereabouts, to take him up on a dare none of the other lads would, to coax him out of a mood by being the only voice of reason he’d listen to. They were John and Paul, Lennon and McCartney. A team, a duo, a partnership. Most importantly, they were one.

But these last few weeks had thrown everything out the window. All of the hard work, the straining effort of trying to get close to him, was for naught. Paul didn’t know him any better than the next guy anymore.

Perhaps that’s why the “I love you” was so difficult to hear. Not because it was queer, or because it was sudden, or even because it was true (was it true?). But because it was a secret that their supposed connection never exposed. Paul wanted John to love him—maybe needed it. More than he’d needed anyone else to love him. But in the same breath, John was pulling away from him, alerting Paul that he’d never truly understand him.

The same heartbeat that reached his own had done so only to suffocate him.

It had been a long time since anyone had moved. Paul made a swift decision to finally break the silence, John’s desperate stare becoming far too much to bear. “I don’t know what you want me to say, John.” Which was true.

“I… don’t know either. Just f—” John blinked at the floor, stopping himself too late. Paul felt utterly crushed to learn that he understood just enough to know what John would have said next.

Just forget it.

Paul wanted to scoff and cry all at once. This was so laughably bizarre, this same repetitive cycle. A shot at normalcy ruined by overconfident attempts at reconciliation, inevitably resulting in the relationship going up in vicious flames once more. If something didn’t change soon, he might well lose his mind.

John almost looked as though he were about to say something more, but thought better of it. He pressed his lips together tightly as his fingers found the door frame. He was turning to go.

Again.

Paul began to panic, drumming his fingers timidly on his pant leg. He had to think of something, quick.

“Did you mean it?” He whispered abruptly, frantically. John stilled, mid turn, thrown by the question. But he had to know. He couldn’t let John leave, not again, not without knowing. He could figure out the rest later. “John. Do you mean it?”

John’s mouth opened, but no words came forth. He looked at Paul helplessly, the denial dying on his lips. Paul watched his mind work through his expression. John couldn’t bring himself to say it again, not really; but he couldn’t pretend anymore, either.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

And suddenly, they were kissing.

John went rigid against Paul’s body, and Paul couldn’t blame him; he had no memory of deciding or even moving to do this, but he knew it was his doing, somehow. Paul’s mind was racing with any possible explanation besides the truth: he wanted to make him stay, he wanted to test him, he wanted to take pity on him. Anything but the idea that Paul did it because he wanted to do it.

They stood for a moment, mouths locked, unmoving. John’s lips were timid but not unwilling, and Paul could almost taste the reluctance and confusion of the union. The fingers on his arm gripped hesitantly, stilled in their motion to push him away. A quick peek told Paul that John’s eyes were screwed shut.

His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse thrumming violently, but there was nothing in the world besides John’s lips on his and John’s fingers on his arm and the way John’s body fit perfectly into the press of Paul’s and everything just John. Paul would do anything it took to never leave this moment.

John’s fingers flexed against his bicep, as if contemplating their next move. With a sudden softness, they loosened their grip on his arm and trailed absentmindedly down his side. The trace paused to absentmindedly hook a finger into the waistband of Paul’s trousers, and that was enough for him.

Paul swiftly pressed into him harder, fisting the front of his shirt and pushing him back against the wall. John let out a surprised, “Oh!” and the air between them shifted: he melted underneath Paul’s stubborn grasp, wholly pliant and soft and near-submissive. He began to kiss back expertly, an unexpected fervor driving his movements, and Paul had to physically fight the urge to push the man onto his knees.

Paul had never felt anything more satisfying than John’s body against his. It felt right, as though this was how they were made to be; flush against one another, tangled far beyond separation. Paul was meant to hold John and only John, and to never let him go again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed in between kisses. “For everything, I’m sorry.”

John never verbally accepted the apology, but the urgent slip of tongue Paul got in response was above satisfactory. John’s fingers trailed to the hem of Paul’s shirt and sneaked their way up his chest; nothing sensual, even, just tracing, feeling, learning. The desperation of wanting to feel skin on skin was evident as John simply touched and Paul simply let him.

He wondered if John had loved him the night that this all began.

In either a flash of attempted reparations or just plain arousal (who could tell?), Paul blindly reached for John’s crotch, pleased to find that he was half-hard in his trousers. John’s breath caught against Paul’s lips, and he broke away to stare down at the fingers that worked his jeans open. There was a strained expression on his face, as if he wasn’t sure whether to tell Paul to stop or keep going.

Tentatively, testing, Paul began to stroke him through his briefs. John’s eyes widened at the movement before fluttering shut once again, leaning his head back against the wall. Paul saw the opportunity of John’s exposed neck and seized it, beginning to suck on the older man’s jaw with ardor.

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the moan threatening to spill out, and Paul began to lick teasingly at that as well. Paul slowly grew addicted to the taste and feeling of John’s skin under his lips—throat, neck, jaw, collarbones, earlobes—all trembling slightly as his chest heaved with laboured breathing. John shifted against the wall, looking slightly overwhelmed at the immense amount of pleasure spiking through his body.

He was fully hard now, and Paul took the opportunity to massage around the head, stomach feeling funny as he watched a spot on John's briefs dampen with budding drops of precum. The action earned a faint whimper from the older man, and Paul made the mistake of looking back up at him, drinking in the expression on his face that could only be described as sinful.

There was a hot blush on his cheeks, in the flushed way he got sometimes after a good gig. Paul bit his lip and recognized that it would be hard for him to watch John perform ever again after this moment. His eyes, when they were able to sporadically flutter open, were appreciative and lustful, a combination that sent a thrill of arousal to Paul’s own gut. He was biting down on his lip violently, brow furrowed as he struggled to keep down his groans.

A sudden memory struck Paul, of John’s sounds against his lips right before George—

Paul needed it. It didn’t matter why, anymore, but he needed to hear it. All of the bitterness and confusion and frustration and incompleteness of that night came rushing back to him, culminating in the desperate desire to make John come real hard right now.

His fingers circled the expanding wet spot in John’s underwear once, a bit of a quick check. He paused his tirade of kisses to spit in his hand, watching as John’s eyebrow quirked at the sound. His eyes were still closed.

Without missing a beat, Paul shoved his hand inside.

John gasped loudly as Paul began to wank him fully, spreading the blend of precum and saliva down his shaft. Paul’s movements were merciless, jerking and twisting with unforgiving speed and expertise as his mouth began to draw a hickey on a particularly visible spot of John’s neck.

“Paul,” he voiced hoarsely, thighs trembling with the combined effort of holding himself up against the wall and ignoring how badly he needed to thrust into Paul’s curled fist.

Paul shushed him with a needy kiss, tongue slipping against John’s as his fingers trailed lower to massage his balls and the base of his dick.

“Shit,” John groaned, tangling his fingers in Paul’s hair. His head dropped back again with a silent whimper. “I’m gonna cum.”

“So soon?” Paul teased into his ear in a near moan, feeling the confession go straight to his cock. He didn’t have to look to know that John shot him a glare.

“It’s fuckin’ good,” John mumbled in response, only half-begrudgingly. “Feels—Christ, why is it so good?”

Paul raised his lips to John’s once more, a stubborn thrill in the pit of his stomach. He was going to bring John to orgasm from subtle movements of his hand alone—he could feel the twitching of the man’s thighs against his, the throb of John’s heated skin in his hand, the way his chest heaved with unintentional sounds. The thought sent a tingle down his spine that made his own arousal ache.

In a final surge of power, he dove into John’s mouth and pulled at his tongue lightly. His teeth teased at the muscle invitingly, drawing him in. John wasted no time pushing back, wherein Paul began to suck lewdly as though it were something entirely different.

“Oh, fuck,” John warned against Paul’s lips, and he was coming, a shudder wracking his body as the warm sticky substance began to coat Paul’s fingers. A string of like-minded curses followed in the next seconds, his fingers pulling lightly at Paul’s hair. Paul only moaned back, continuing to work him until he had spilled every last drop in his briefs. John groaned at the hint of overstimulation.

After a few beats of awkward silence, Paul gave him one last tug and pulled his hand out, wiping it on the front of John’s jeans. “Christ.”

John didn’t seem to mind a bit, laughing shakily. His cheeks were slightly pink from both exertion and embarrassment. He cleared his throat. “You could say that again.”

“I wanted to do that,” Paul confessed, his face heating up. “For you. To you. Been wanting that.”

John gave him a soft smile, stroking Paul’s cheekbone with his thumb. It felt like an uncomfortably intimate gesture, despite what they had just done. “Me too.”

Paul chuckled carelessly. “Good. Maybe we should have cleared that beforehand.”

“Maybe.” John couldn’t bite back the grin, relief evident on his face. Paul noticed the expression with a thrill, the air seeming impossibly lighter between them.

He sighed then, dipping forward so their foreheads were pressed together. They rested in blissful silence for a minute, maybe two. His nose brushed Paul’s, and he hesitated a moment before starting again with a mild, quivering whisper. The movement made Paul’s heart flutter in sudden apprehension, inexplicably feeling as though the moment was slipping away through his fingers and he was trying in vain to hold on.

“Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“I have a question.”

“Sounds more like a statement.”

John’s eyes lilted up, an amused glint in them. Paul felt mysteriously breathless at the gaze. He wanted to remark on it, to tell John how incredibly gorgeous he really was, how breathtakingly beautiful—but by the time he found the words, the fondness was gone. Replaced with something both worried and worrying. John looked down, eyelashes fluttering low on his cheeks, now refusing to meet Paul’s eyes. Paul’s heart hammered in his throat as he tried to reconcile the sudden shift with the impending question. John bit his lip.

“Do you love me?”

Paul tensed.

John’s eyes searched his as a chill fell over the room.

Paul said nothing.

He stumbled backwards as John’s hands shoved him off. He opened his mouth to protest, to defend himself, to do something, but the man was out of the room before Paul could even think of calling after him. Seconds later, a door slammed faintly down the hall. The moment was finalized; nothing more than a memory, now.

Paul wondered how many more times John would storm out on him before he just never came at all.

—

There was only one way to make things right. Considering that even worked.

Paul spit out the hangnail he’d been working on thoughtlessly and ran a hand through his hair. It felt well-versed in his mind, now, after spending three hours alone in the studio, doing nothing but staring at the wall and drowning in thought.

Paul loathed women. It was a funny thought, and though he initially dismissed it as intrusive, he began to chuckle at the truth behind his feelings. No, he truly loathed them–so entitled and pretentious, never having to worry about popping a hard-on at the most inopportune moments. That’s what this whole mess was all about, really, if you thought about it. Paul and the goddamn dream and painful lack of self-control. Things would have been so much easier if Paul were a bird. John probably would have fucked him by now, anyroad.

He got up to stretch. His joints popped as he reached up with a groan, a feline arch in his back after being hopelessly glued to the chair for so long. His limbs were heavy with dread as he began to gather himself, physically and emotionally, to prepare for what was to come.

Apologies weren’t all bad, he supposed. At least, in the end, he could look back and know that he had done everything he could to save the music, save the band, save him and John. That was the final selling point in the decision: as much as the idea made his stomach churn, Paul would show up, express regret, and admit that he was ready to forget about it, that nothing like this would ever happen again. And he could tell himself that he did everything he could.

Paul never really registered leaving the studio, but the outside air assaulted him as he hurried down the front steps, clutching his coat and hat. As was typical for London at this time of year, it had started to rain, and Paul flinched as the thick drops pounded him from above. He squinted through the drizzle and hastened toward the curb, waving frantically at the oncoming vehicle.

The cab approached the curb with a squeal of the brakes, sending a surge of collected rainwater over Paul’s boots and trousers. Paul wrinkled his nose at the predicament and shook them off a bit before throwing the door open and climbing in.

When he removed his hat, the cab driver gasped. He spoke with a heavy French accent. “McCartney!”

“Pleasure,” Paul responded, forking over the money in advance. It was well above what a typical cab fare would be for the drive, but he was on a mission.

The driver eyed him skeptically, hesitantly fingering the wad of notes. He looked torn between wanting to clarify and wanting to shut up and accept the blessing. (The incentive, rather.)

“Where to, monsieur?”

Paul sighed and glanced to his right, watching a thick raindrop snake its way down the window.

“Weybridge.”

#the beatles #beatles fanfiction #john lennon #paul mccartney #mclennon #mclennon smut #smut #part 7 #chapter fic #ao3

[jyndor]

You know, the conversation about sea shanties is just another chapter in what seems like the endless story of people of color, in particular black and indigenous people, telling us to learn the history of the things we like and white people hearing that it means we have to lock those things away forever and burn our books and stamp on our records. As if that isn’t what white people have done to black and indigenous stories, to black and indigenous cultures, to black and indigenous arts, wealth, etc for centuries. As if that is what the people of color who are educating us on the things we like are actually advocating for. News flash: part of the history of oppressors is fearing the tables turning, when that is never been the goal of civil rights and social justice movements. Ever.

So fun fact: I grew up loving good ol’ classic rock n’ roll. My first concert was the Allman Brothers Band, which is one of the most interesting rock bands of all time imo. I really love a good southern twangy jam, the way the guitars sing, the bluesy sunny vibe. Ramblin’ Man? Jessica? Simple Man? Carry On Wayward Son? Hotel California? Perfect fucking driving music if you ask me.

If you know anything about southern rock, you know the iconography - the Confederate Flag is everywhere, in the crowds, for many bands it’s in the album covers and the photoshoots, etc. You know what you get when you wade in the Southern rock water*.

The lyrics from Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama have been parsed and interpreted in all kinds of ways -

In Birmingham they love the governor (boo-boo-boo) Now we all did what we could do Now Watergate does not bother me Does your conscience bother you?

And yeah, you could read this as ironic or satirical. In fact, that’s what guitarist and co-writer Gary Rossington says according to NPR -

"A lot of people believed in segregation and all that. We didn't. We put the 'boo, boo, boo' there saying, 'We don't like Wallace,' " Rossington said. But he also added that there were "a lot of different interpretations. I'm sure if you asked the other guys who are not with us anymore and are up in rock and roll heaven, they have their story of how it came about."

And yeah, maybe they didn’t like George Wallace or Nixon. Sure. Whatever. I could buy it, actually. Because this song actually is indicative of how many privileged people feel when they perceive being called out, even if the criticism isn’t about them. Call it wjhat you want - white fragility, white liberal sensitivity, etc. This song was written in response to Neil Young’s Southern Man, which goes:

Southern man, better keep your head Don't forget what your good book said Southern change gonna come at last Now your crosses are burning fast

Southern man I saw cotton and I saw black Tall white mansions and little shacks Southern man, when will you pay them back? I heard screamin' and bullwhips cracking How long? How long? How?

Yeah, writer Ronnie Van Zant was so bothered by Neil Young talking about l*nchings, abject sl*very and reparations in Southern Man, a song that isn’t even about them or Alabama in particular, that he wrote Sweet Home Alabama.

Well I heard Mister Young sing about her Well I heard ol' Neil put her down Well I hope Neil Young will remember A southern man don't need him around anyhow

Sweet home Alabama Where the skies are so blue Sweet home Alabama Lord I'm comin' home to you 

So ironically, even though Neil Young was just talking to racists in the US South, someone who ostensibly didn’t agree with segregation took that song as a personal attack because he liked “southern culture” and his home state of Alabama, despite its flaws.

But Young never says that the South is irredeemable. He just says white southerners need to come to terms with their history (and yes make reparations). In fact, according to NPR he has some issues with his lyrics. “I didn't like my words when I wrote them. They are accusatory and condescending.” I don’t agree. It needs to be said.

So Van Zant and the Skynyrd guys heard a criticism of white Southern racism and at BEST thought, “well that’s an unfair portrayal of me, a southern white man.” Van Zant can’t answer this question for himself since he died in a plane crash with two other band members and their manager in 1977.

In my opinion, knowing how white people can be when confronted with the reality of racism, this feels a lot like every other time a well-meaning white person (myself included) has said, “but not all white people.”

Not all Southern whites supported segregation at the time, but most did - and all white people benefit from the legacy of sl*very. I might not be a descendant of people who enslaved others, my ancestors might have come here as refugees, but after they fled Ireland for New York, they threw black people under the bus for whiteness.

Rock is a genre that owes everything to Black musicians - to blues and spirituals and gospel and yes, Black work songs. Black history is in the DNA of rock music. That I grew up thinking it was white music is mortifying to be honest.

But I don’t really like Sweet Home Alabama and I never have. It’s kind of just meh to me. Not a big loss.

And that takes me to the Allman Brothers Band. As far as I am aware, ABB (through many, many iterations - this is another band plagued by tragedy) has never been cool with racism. According to Vulture:

The Allmans respected not just black art but black players; as kids, Gregg and Duane got lessons from an older black guitarist their mother once refused to allow into her home, and later, they caught hell having Jaimoe and bassist Lamar Williams in their ranks in their adopted home state of Georgia. “If a musician could play, we didn’t look at his skin color,” Gregg wrote in his 2012 memoir My Cross to Bear.

“Nobody around here had seen guys who looked like them,” soul food legend and friend of the band Mama Louise Hudson said in Alan Paul’s 2014 oral history One Way Out: The Inside History of the Allman Brothers Band. “A lot of the white folk around here did not approve of them long-haired boys, or of them always having a black guy with them.” Southern rock occupied a peculiar axis of Mason-Dixon pride and reverence to blues and soul veterans who were hampered and harangued by the politics of the South. Gregg always pushed back. He didn’t placate audiences’ blind patriotism and racism the way Charlie Daniels and Hank Williams Jr. have. Last year, he spoke out against North Carolina’s transphobic “bathroom bill,” and when asked about the confederate flag in 2015, he told Radio.com, “If people are gonna look at that flag and think of it as representing slavery, then I say burn every one of them.”

And that is great.

But.

Whipping Post. Written by white ally Gregg Allman, bluesy and wild and passionate on a level that is hard to imagine, this is... one of the greatest songs I have ever heard. And it also makes me wonder if it’s maybe belittling a part of slavery.

My friends tell me, that I've been such a fool But I had to stand by and take it baby, all for lovin' you I drown myself in sorrow as I look at what you've done But nothing seemed to change, the bad times stayed the same, And I can't run Sometimes I feel, sometimes I feel Like I been tied to the whippin' post Tied to the whippin' post, tied to the whippin' post Good Lord, I feel like I'm dyin'.

Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve researched it, I’ve used google. There isn’t a lot the internet has to say about this song that isn’t “this song fucking slaps man!!!” Maybe part of it is the larger context - Allman was staunchly against racism and was taught by a Black guitarist and played with Black musicians and loved Black music. A white man comparing an emotionally abusive relationship with being whipped might feel different without that context.

(Whipping posts being used for people besides enslaved Black people does not mean Allman wasn’t referencing what Black American slaves experienced, so don’t even go there. I know. The Romans also had slaves. It’s different.)

But if some people of color on the internet critique this song someday, the appropriate response is not to act as if “hey here is where this comes from, please be mindful about historical context and get educated” means “never listen to that devil song again,” folks.

It’s about learning our histories so we can do better in the future. Not canceling entire genres of music. Some things are best left in the past but mostly it’s just about understanding what the things we love mean. And these things are more than their aesthetics.

*I also really, really love African American work songs. Always have.

#cait uses her musical knowledge for once #work songs #sea shanties #this discourse is like one side saying read a book or wikipedia and the other side thinking they are being burned at the stake #history #southern rock #music #racism #colonialism #slavery tw #lynching tw #neil young was right he shouldn't have back tracked #but he's also canadian so like fix your glass house honey

[glitterypeanutmugnickel]

The Sublime Beauty of My Friend Bob Saget’s Filthy Comedy

Mr. Jillette is a magician and comedian. He produced the 2005 documentary “The Aristocrats.”

My children are teenagers, ages 15 and 16, and they know the comic Bob Saget was my friend. They know he died earlier this week, and that I’m grieving. They want to comfort me. But when they saw clips of Bob on the internet, making hard-core jokes about pedophilia and incest, they were offended. They thought my friend must have been a bad person, and it was hard for them to understand how I could have loved him.

I don’t know if I can blame them. How could they understand that doing transgressive comedy was, in Bob’s hands, not about hate and pain but, rather, a daredevil act of mutual trust?

We now consume much of our art in bite-size chunks, sometimes just seconds of video stripped of context: the message without the messenger. When my children watched little snippets of Bob and read some quotes, they couldn’t know that Bob Saget didn’t do transgressive comedy to be mean. He didn’t even do it to shock. He did it to make people laugh, to test himself, to let the audience test him and to form a connection with them.

He had a big smile and joy for the world in “Full House” and on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.” Everyone loved and trusted Bob in those roles. You wanted to hug him.

Some people are saying now that the real Bob was very different from that good-guy image, but I disagree. Offstage he was loving, kind, open, funny, a great friend and a great father. He also told filthy, disgusting, offensive jokes.

What Bob Saget practiced was emotional stage diving. He would fall face-first into the audience’s arms. If the audience didn’t trust him enough to catch him with their laughs, it would be worse than smashing onto a concrete floor.

The Beat poet Allen Ginsberg understood that this kind of gamble was intrinsic to great art. He is said to have said, “The poet always stands naked before the world.” I think there’s more to it. The artist must bravely say, “I am going to show the world who I am, and I trust that someone will understand.”

Real art, beautiful art, is always a scary act of trust. We look to art to see another person’s heart. That human connection is all that matters. For me, it is a reason to live.

I first got to know Bob when we were shooting “The Aristocrats,” an arty documentary from 2005 where we recorded comics telling the filthiest version they could of an inside comedy joke. It was a joke that comics loved — Johnny Carson was a big fan — but was never told to the public. It was meant for other comedians — siblings who understood the fun challenge of pushing boundaries while keeping trust.

We recorded Bob backstage at a comedy club right before he went on for his set. The director, Paul Provenza, and I had told Bob that we were comparing comedy improvisation to jazz improvisation. We hear musicians improvise solos over the same chord changes, and we wanted to watch comedians improvise over the same joke. We were shooting with home equipment and didn’t know if the movie would ever come out for the public. We thought it might just be a document for the 100-plus people who were in it.

Before we started rolling, Bob said, “Who do I have to beat?” He meant, who had been the most outrageous so far? “George? Robin?” he asked. We said that yes, George Carlin and Robin Williams had taken it pretty far out, but the ones he should be gunning for were Gilbert Gottfried and Carrie Fisher. Bob said, “OK.” He inhaled a deep breath and took off.

Oh, my goodness gracious! There wasn’t a taboo that Bob didn’t roll around in. His storytelling was so skilled and brilliant, his timing impeccable. He even threw in a Three Stooges impersonation. The images he put in our minds were as shocking as anything I had ever imagined.

Time froze. He went on forever. Every few minutes he’d start giggling, ask what he was doing and drop his head. Then he’d pop up with that beautiful, honest smile and go deeper. The biggest expense in turning our home movie into a feature film was filtering out my constant, loud, cackling laugh.

Bob was as naked and vulnerable as any artist I’ve ever seen. He stripped down. He showed us his insides. His comedy proved his nice-guy image. Bob said the most offensive things anyone had ever heard, and we loved him not despite it, but because of it.

That kind of artist has become rarer, and some say with good reason. I don’t know. I still trust comics, but the jokes, memes and comments of internet trolls are different. Trolls don’t seek to demonstrate and celebrate trust; they strive to destroy it. The troll does not want to use offense as a tool to get to shared humanity. There is no bravery.

I have heard some thoughtful arguments against the transgressive comedy that I love. One problem is that it is often the same groups of people who are being asked to take the joke. I never heard Bob insult people who were marginalized, but other comedians do, and I don’t think that’s really fair. Even if everyone is equally fair game for comedy, our culture makes these jokes land unevenly. I see that. I don’t have the right to say to someone else: “It’s a joke. Get over it.”

I want to teach my children what was beautiful about Bob Saget, but I also want to learn from them. Maybe trust and kindness are getting a little too scarce. We might need more unnuanced, unartistic, simple respect. I’m happy my children care so much about how we treat one another.

But I hope their generation, which is pushing to have speech be more careful, can understand that artists like Bob were never trading in hate. He loved the world, and I loved him.

Penn Jillette is a magician and comedian. He produced the 2005 documentary “The Aristocrats.” As one half of the magic act Penn & Teller, he performs in Las Vegas and hosts “Penn & Teller: Fool Us” on TV.

[barbaramoorersm]

October 3, 2021

October 3, 2921

Twenty-seven Sunday in Ordinary Time

Genesis 2: 18-24

This is the second account of the creation story.

Psalm 128

The Psalmist recounts the handwork of God.

Letter to the Hebrews 2: 9-11

The author speaks of Jesus taking on human flesh.

Mark 10: 2-16

The Gospel presents Jesus sharing two important teachings. One deals with marriage and the other with children.

 The section on children in Mark’s Gospel is one that delights the reader.  It speaks of the innocence and awareness of children.  The marriage section of this Gospel is what we might call a “difficult text”.  I am always very careful when preaching about marriage, a life style I was not called to embrace.  But through the years I have walked with folks in happy marriages, the sorrow at the death of a spouse, and those who were rejected or who for any variety of reasons, found themselves in a difficult commitment.   My reflections around this Gospel are from a purely pastoral perspective.

The first two creation stories in Genesis are dramatically different.  The first account is a beautiful poem of a six-day process.  The first three days God creates the context for the creatures that were created the last three days. Humankind holds a place of honor by being created in God’s image. The fact that there are two accounts of creation tells us that the editors of this book combined two well accepted ancient creation stories.  It is important to note that many different creation stories were very prevalent among ancient peoples, and often parts of them are borrowed and appear in other stories.  In today’s Genesis story, man is created very early and to give him company, God took one of his ribs and created a woman.  I remember as a child I was sure we could locate the missing rib in men!  The first creation account describes humankind as “made in God’s image” and in the second account the author speaks of the relationship between a man and his wife.  And it is this second creation account that Jesus speaks about today.  Then he expands his teaching by discussing different dimensions of divorce.

Today, a question was presented to Jesus in order to trap him.  The answer could have raised problems for him because the ruler, Herod married his brother’s wife.  Certainly, John the Baptist had problems around this issue and they led to his death. One might ask why in the Gospel do religious leaders try to ensnare Jesus or embarrass him?   Why did he threaten them?  It is a question we perhaps all need to think about when we find ourselves being hurt, cornered or embarrassed by a person with whom we disagree. Or if we sense we are doing it to another person.

There were different views about divorce within Jewish religious leadership. Some would not allow a man to remarry after a divorce if his former wife was alive.  Mark has Jesus presenting the strictest interpretation of the divorce law. But we see that in time, Matthew’s Gospel and Paul’s letters offer some alternatives.  This awareness indicates that as time moves on and understandings change about human nature, so too different legal and religious interpretations often follow.

All, of us have experienced the pain and suffering divorce presents as well as the attempts to maintain a relationship that no longer exists.  We are aware of the impact divorce has on children and extended families.  We also know and have seen the abuse some partners endure to maintain a commitment. In addition, we are aware of the pain some communities and individual Christians have imposed on divorced persons who remain in their midst.  

Jesus, as he reached back into the time of Moses, indicates that Moses made decisions about marriage because of the  “hardness of (the people’s) hearts”. Moses was responding to the attitudes and views of his day.  It is also interesting to note that the decision of Moses only effected men who sought a divorce.  But Jesus in his instructions, broadened the issue and included women seeking a divorce.

There is power in Jesus’ additional instruction. “What God has joined together; no human being must separate”.  This is a warning not only to the married couple, but to all of us who are in relationship with them.  I do think that it is a legitimate question to ask, “Did God join these two people together”?  I say that because their union is much more than a church blessing as important as it is. We all know situations that have made it difficult for a couple to hold on, and maintain their relationship.  

Our role it seems to me in such cases, is one of compassionate listening, prayer, and wise but non-judgmental advice.  And for those of us who are committed to pastoral care, it might be wise from time to time to reflect on the marriages that are obviously “joined together by God” as examples of the depth and meaning Jesus is suggesting as well as those who struggle.  There is so much we can learn from all their experiences both positive and negative.  

[firstumcschenectady]

“God's Table Extended” based on Jeremiah 31:31-34 and 1 Corinthians 11:17-34

Rabbi Rafi Spitzer of congregation Agudat Achim in Niskayuna, led an amazing workshop this week entitled “People of the Library: An Introduction to Talmudic Literature and the Mythic Transmission of Jewish Tradition for Clergy of Other Faiths.”  Schenectady Clergy Against Hate is a VERY cool organization, and I learned a lot.  

Rabbi Spitzer talked about the roots of modern Rabbinic Judaism as emerging in the period after the destruction of the 2nd Temple (70-200 CE).  This is the same period as the formation of most of the Christian texts.  Jesus lived earlier, of course, but most scholars date the earliest Gospel, the Gospel of Mark, to 70 CE because it mentions the destruction of the Temple.

That is, both Modern Judaism and Christianity-As-We-Know-It (as a separate faith tradition) emerged after, and in the response to Rome's destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple.  It was in making sense of this horrific disaster that new expressions of God's ways in the world emerged.

This is particularly interesting to me because the Hebrew Bible was written down in the aftermath of the destruction of Jerusalem and the First Temple in 587-586 BCE, when the Jewish leaders and scholars were sent into exile.  The stories, of course, were much older, but they were written down then, and that means that they were written down with the question “why did this happen to us?” at the forefront.

That is, the Hebrew Bible gets written down and tries to make sense of death, destruction, and disaster.  The majority of the “New Testament” gets written down and tries to make sense of death, destruction, and disaster, AND concurrently the Jewish Mishnah gets written down and tries to make sense of death, destruction, and disaster.  

It seems to indicate our faith traditions are deeply rooted in trying to make sense of death, destruction, and disaster, or that God is up to new things when prior systems are destroyed, or that in trying to preserve what used to be we end up making new things possible, or that God can bring good even out of bad, or maybe all of the above.

In any case, I think it is interesting, and worth continuing to ponder. Especially now, when we have experienced death, destruction, and disaster, and are wondering what we and God will be up to next.

Our Hebrew Bible Lesson today from Jeremiah speaks lovingly of the “new covenant” between God and the people.  This is such a foundational idea in Christianity that we may not know that this passage is the ONLY time such an idea emerges in the Hebrew Bible.  

“Foundational,” you say, “why?”  Think of the words “old testament” and “new testament” and remember that testament is a synonymous with covenant here.  This is how some people made sense of the whole Christian tradition.  That said, there are far too many who take these words to mean that the Hebrew Bible is old, or outdated, or replaced, and that is problematic.  We intentionally use the words “Hebrew Bible” to recognize our shared biblical tradition.

Anyway, back to Jeremiah.  Jeremiah is a prophet of the exile, and  for much of the book Jeremiah warns of the dangers of the impending exile. However, once the exile happens, Jeremiah's tone changes, and he turns to comfort and hope.  This passage is part of that, promising a return to God's promises and relationships.  The promise is particularly full, as it speaks to both the northern and southern kingdoms, the wholeness of Ancient Israel.  It is also full in that the new covenant will not be dependent on the people's faithfulness. God will take care of it.

“I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.  No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, "Know the LORD," for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.” (Jeremiah 31:33b-34, NRSV)

It is a lovely vision, in some ways the ultimate comfort: a relationship with God one can't mess up.

The Christian church has claimed this covenant as their own.  Take these words from our communion liturgy, “By the baptism of his suffering, death, and resurrection you gave birth to your church, delivered us from slavery to sin and death, and made with us a new covenant by water and the Spirit.” (UM Hymnal, page 9).  

I have some deeply mixed feelings about this claim.  On the one hand, it fits with my assumption that our status as beloveds of God is based on the nature of God (grace) and not on our performance.  On the other hand, it seems rather profoundly to miss out on the idea that God wants us to take care of each other, and that our actions matter in the building of the kindom.

Or maybe I'm exaggerating.  After all, Jeremiah's idea isn't that the people ignore God's wishes.  Rather it is that they know God and God's grace so well that it is inherent in them and they live it out naturally.  (I have mixed feelings about this too – in that it is lovely, but simply not true of Christians I know.)

In 1 Corinthians we read the first historical record of communion.  Paul had planted the church in Corinth but had been away for a few years. In the first century CE the communion meal was a full common meal (think potluck) during which the last supper was remembered. Apparently in the time after Paul left things had gone off kilter a bit.  According to Marcus Borg:

the wealthy (who didn't have to work) would gather early for the meal. By the time the people who worked (most of the community) got to the meal, the wealthy had already eaten and some were tipsy.  They may also have served the best food and the best wine to themselves before the others arrived.  Such was common among the wealthy of the world. For Paul this violated the 'one body' understanding of the body of Christ.  It meant bringing hierarchical distinctions of 'this world' into the body of Christ.1

Borg goes on to explain the later threat to those who eat and drink and an “unworthy manner”.  “In this context, eating and drinking the bread and wine 'in an unworthy manner' refers to the behavior of the wealthy in perpetuating the divisions of 'this world.' In Christian communities, these divisions were abolished.”2

How quickly the early church struggled with the equality and equity of God's kindom!  How hard it is to let go of hierarchy and let love for all be the way decisions are made.  How familiar that is.  Those of us who are white have been trained in mostly subconscious ways that we are at the top of a hierarchy, and when left to our own devices we will re-create systems that put our needs at the top while telling ourselves it is OK.  Like the wealthy Corinthians might have said, “We told them it started at 4, but they don't make it until 5:20. Why should we have to wait when we TOLD THEM what time it started?” Or when a white person takes their own shame, guilt, anger, or aggression as a reason to violate, harm, or kill  people of color. Or even in the tiny little micro-aggressions of every day, related to who gets heard, who gets believed, who is expected to be soothing, who is expected to sooth, and whose pain matters.

It took Paul saying, “don't violate God's table like that” for it to be heard.  But I'm guessing that the reason he knew it was happening was because the impoverished members of the community had been saying so for quite some time, and finally tried a new way of getting their needs heard.  I am hearing from Asian and Asian American friends and colleagues that violence against Asians and Asian Americans has been a regular part of their lives in the United States all along, and has been FAR worse for the past year +.  I am also hearing exhaustion and horror that a white man used his own shame as motivation for mass murder, mostly of Asian women.  

And let me say, because it MUST BE SAID, that a person doing sex work does not IN ANY WAY change their human value, nor make it permissible to harm that person.  Indeed, most people who support themselves with sex work are people who exist in the most vulnerable positions of our society, and as such are worthy of the most care and support to counterbalance the harm they've lived.

The Children and Youth of the Church have been working this Lent to support a Lenten project to respond to hunger. They have invited us to collect one canned good or  nonperishables a week to donate to the SICM food pantry.  We are invited to bring those gifts this coming Saturday (March 27 for those watching this NOT on Sunday) at the flower sale.  Those tangible gifts serve as a reminder of other people's tangible needs.  It is also possible to make a donation to SICM through our website or by check, knowing that SICM can buy food at the Regional Food Bank at a very discounted rate.

That is to say, that as we prepare God's Communion Table for ourselves today, given Paul's admonitions, it might be a good time to be sure that as we receive God's gifts of grace, life, and hope, we extend the table as we are able.  Or, perhaps this is  time for gifts to Patty's place.  Patty's Place is an outreach-based service for women at-risk, exploited, or involved in sex work. They provide immediate resources and long-term referrals.

I'm less than sure we're embodying Jeremiah's new covenant, but I am entirely sure that the part that says that God is with us, in our hearts, and claiming us as beloveds is true.  And I'm sure that we have wonderful ways to respond to God's love – with love, even, ESPECIALLY in the midst of disaster.  Let's do it!  Amen

1Marcus J Borg,  59 Evolution of the Word: The New Testament in the Order the Books Were Written (United States of America: HarperOne, 2012), 59.

2Ibid.

Rev. Sara E. Baron First United Methodist Church of Schenectady 603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305 Pronouns: she/her/hers http://fumcschenectady.org/ https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

March 21, 20201

#Schenectady Clergy Against Hate #Progressive Christianity #Thinking Church #Interfaith Dialouge #UMC #Sorry about the UMC world #Schenectady #Rev Sara E Baron #jeremiah #Prophet of the Exile #Rabbi Rafi Spitzer #End White Supremacy #Sex workers are workers #New Covenant