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danses-with-dogmeat · 3 years

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Introducing My Fallout OCs!

OMGGGG y’all, I can’t. I’ve apparently reached over 200 of you fantabulous followers and I am so ecstatic! I honestly don’t even know if this is considered a milestone or anything, but I was super psyched, so I'm doing something about it, dang it!

Also, just a heads up on me right now, I just started school again, so my posting miiiiiiight be a bit sporadic every now and then, but I’m determined to still try and get a few posts out every week, so we’ll see how that goes. I’m also pretty backed up on requests at the moment, I’m still accepting them for the time being, but I may turn off my asks if I’m finding difficulty getting to everyone.

Anyways, I know I don’t ever really talk about my Fallout Original Characters, but I’m thinking of doing some stuff with them in the future, so this seemed like a good place to start 🤷‍♀️ So, here they are! One from each of the 3 FO games I write for. If ya’ll want to send in any asks about these folks, please feel free to do so!

(Art for these peeps is pending potentially as well).

My Lone Wanderer: Hope

Appearance:

- Basically like a black-haired, blue eyed Sarah Connor (y’know, from Terminator), she’s got a small frame, but is an absolute beast. She loves to change up her hair, but prefers the iron maiden, unladylike, or rude ridge styles and will often dye it bright-ass colors, cuz why not? She’s pretty pale considering the vault background and the fact she is constantly wearing full body combat or leather armor when she’s outdoors, and she has a few piercings she actually got before leaving the vault.

What’s in a Name:

- “Hope” was the name that her parents chose for her before she was even born, but she can’t stand it, she just tends to see it as a cruel joke in the world they live in. She instead goes by Effie (short for Ephialtes, cuz she’s edgy and dramatic and read too much in school). Hope tends not to tell anyone her real name, and if she does, you’d best not use it to refer to her, unless you like being enslaved. The only one who could ever get away with it is Jericho and a select few people from the vault (Stanley, and her father, but she’s still not happy about it.)

Sexuality:

- Pansexual

Main Companion:

- Jericho

Relationship(s):

- She has a sort of “friends with benefits” type situation going with Jericho, but it ends up getting... complicated, and turning somewhat into a relationship.

Bestie(s):

- Even though he’s her boss, Hope likes to hang out with Eulogy when she’s in Paradise Falls. When she was in the vault, she spent a lot of time with Stanley, and was pretty close with Butch, Wally, and Paul as well.

Fam Dam:

- James and Catherine are/were her parents (obviously). But she also considered Stanley to be a sort of uncle to her.

Karma:

- Oh, the worst. She’s honestly awful. She steals, she murders, she enslaves, she blows up settlements, all of it. She’s got a lot of things she needs to work out...

Faction of Choice:

- The Slavers of Paradise Falls. (Yeah... she sucks.) The Brotherhood and the Outcasts just never really struck her fancy, and her and Jericho found it was easy to make bank with the slavers. Hope also is a friend to Allistair Tenpenny and Mister Burke... and not the folks in Megaton. Cuz they’re all not really alive.

Vault Occupation:

- Engineer

Fun Fact!:

- Hope is really bad with empathy, and absolutely needs to experience something for herself before she can make any sort of judgement on it, or other people who have had that same experience.

My Courier Six: Sage

Appearence:

- Sage doesn’t really consider herself very “flashy” in comparison to most folks in NV. She’s got shoulder length brown hair (blast back or clean cut style) and brownish-hazel eyes. She’s pretty damn tan (Mojave, you know) and doesn’t have many scars, but the ones on the right side of her forehead clearly indicate where she was shot in the head (thanks, Benny). She and Boone tend to twin quite a bit, with matching red berets and sunglasses.

What’s in a Name:

- The poor girl has no clue what her real name was before she was shot, but she saw a box of labelled herbs in Doc Mitchell’s house when she was recovering from her headwounds and decided she liked the name “Sage.”

Sexuality:

- Bisexual

Main Companion:

- Craig Boone

Relationship:

- Also Boone :) it’s a pretty darn slow-burn romance with lots of bumps along the way, but their love always seems to prevail. (Gross and sappy, I know)

Bestie(s):

- Arcade, plus Rex, and ED-E. Also Victor and Doc Mitchell.

Fam Dam:

- No clue, unfortunately. She eventually tries to find out something about her past and her family, if she has any, but she’s got a few things to deal with first (hint, one rhymes with pleaser’s fleegion).

Karma:

- She may make mistakes along the way, but Sage really does try her best to be as good as possible.

Faction of Choice:

- Mr. House and the Followers of the Apocalypse. Would like to get rid of House, but can't bring herself to become responsible for everything once he's gone. She considers herself his personal empathy and tries to assist with the goings on of the Mojave even after the battle of hoover dam. Fucking wiped out everyone in the Legion. Her and Boone are a force to be reckoned with. And she never really cared much for the Brotherhood since she had such little interaction with them. She has a good relationship with Freeside and most of the settlements/other towns as well.

Previous Occupation:

- Courier? She has no idea what else. But she’s oddly really good with medicine 🤔

Fun Fact!:

- She supports Mr. House for a number of reasons, but one of the biggest is that she doesn't want to lose Victor. He saved her, and she considers the securitron to be her oldest friend (besides Doc Mitchell). She knows it's a little selfish, but she can't bring herself to put an end to him after he pulled her from her own grave and helped bring her back from the brink of death.

My Sole Survivor: Jolene Arvanidis-Ryan

Appearence:

- She’s got auburn hair she usually keeps cut short (clean cut) or in a bun, green eyes, pale skin with a good amount of freckles and has exceptionally straight teeth (braces suck, but you know.) When traveling with Cait, people tend to think they’re related. Jolene tends to wear a black beret and, if she has the time and resources, she likes cat eye style eyeliner.

What’s in a Name:

- Her first name runs in the family... plus her dad really liked Dolly Parton, so that helped cement the first name for him. Nate’s last name was Arvanidis, and she tends to use that as her last name exclusively, she rarely reveals her maiden name (Ryan) to anyone.

Sexuality:

- Straight

Main Companion:

- Paladin Danse

Relationship:

- It takes a long time (post BB), but she ends up being with Danse.

Bestie(s):

- MacCready and Cait

Fam Dam:

- Pre-war, her father was a carpenter and her mother was a major in the US military, she had no siblings and was very close with her father since her mom was often away on deployment.

Karma:

- Decent. Tries her best to do what’s “right,” but she sometimes has a hard time determining what that is. Is good at following orders, even if she doesn’t always agree with them (BB is the exception in this case).

Faction of Choice:

- Brotherhood of Steel, at least until BB, then she tends to focus more on the Minutemen, but still stays by the BOS’s side when it comes to taking down the Institute. Despite her loyalty to the BOS, she always regrets what she did to the Railroad, and how she ended things with the Institute, and she holds quite a bit of resentment towards Elder Maxson for ordering her to pull the trigger that ended her son’s life, and the other lives within the Institute.

Previous Occupation (Pre-War):

- She was a Gunnery Sergeant in the US Military. (Trying to follow in her mother’s footsteps).

Fun Fact!:

- She hates killing feral ghouls, but keeps it under wraps since she tends to travel with MacCready and Danse the most. After that random encounter where she found herself murdering her own neighbors, she can’t bring herself to look into the eyes of any feral ghouls she has to kill.

Bonus! Fun Fact!:

- She started out as my sort of "throw away" playthrough where I wanted to do a BOS run, just out of curiosity, but she ended up being my main playthrough… probably because Danse is just the best and I can't get enough of that tin can thesaur-ass.

#fallout #fallout 3 #fallout new vegas #fallout 4 #original character #fallout oc #thank you guys again #ily all so much #thank you for reading #you all are the best

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athina-blaine · 4 years

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Martin goes and gets himself stabbed. It's inconvenient.

For @thesmallestzita.

Chapters: 1/1 [Complete]

Words: 1,774

Tags: Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Season 1, Pre-Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence

Martin tripped over a stray soda can and the pain in his side flared. Hissing through his teeth, he pressed his hand deeper over the wound, taking a moment to collect himself, before continuing to shamble down the rain slicked pavement.

He takes some initiative for once, and this is what happens. Typical. The others weren’t going to let him hear the end of this. Especially not Jon.

Martin hoped Jon never found out about this. He’d die of embarrassment, first. Martin was walking a tight rope after the disastrous Rentoul follow up, as it were. There’s no telling what Jon would do if he knew Martin had to go and get himself bloody stabbed, all the while following up a case that had already been closed.

He pulled his mind back to the task at hand; get to hospital. It was more difficult due to the fact that every lone piece of rubbish seemed determined to get under his feet and trip him up. It didn’t help that his legs moved like they were fast filling with lead, heavy and sluggish.

It’s amazing, sometimes, the things you take for granted. Martin walked every day. He was pretty good at it, he thought. But, now, it took everything he had just to put one foot in front of the other.

The pavement swam before his eyes, the neon lights bouncing off rain puddles in a hypnotic display. It made him queasy. He had to lean against a brick wall. Just a short break, to catch his breath. Not for long.

This was harder than he’d thought it would be. His GPS said the hospital had only been a twenty-minute walk, but he feels as if he’d been going and going for hours.

God, he was such a moron. What had he been thinking? Skulking around the site of paranormal nonsense with no backup and no one knowing where he was. He had just wanted to know more about the fate of Carlos Vittery, and, maybe, uncover something that was missed the first time. Something that would impress Jon.

He hadn’t known someone was there. He wouldn’t have gone in if he had known that.

The woman had dark hair, filthy and caked with a thick, flaky secretion and when she had turned, she had … holes, in her face. And the bugs …

So distracted by the silvery worms, he hadn’t had time to react when the woman lunged with a rusty razor, slicing clean through just under his ribs.

“It’s okay,” she had whispered. “You don’t want to be here for what comes next, anyway.”

Flooded with adrenaline, Martin had managed to sprint out of the basement, away from the woman and her burrowing worms without any further harm. It had to have been Jane Prentiss. Nothing else made sense. And nothing good could possibly come out of whatever was coming next.

He grimaced, pressing his hand into his side, slick with blood.

He wasn’t going to make it.

He helplessly slid down the wall. No. No, this was bad. He can’t lie down. If he did, he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up.

Shit. Shit.

First things first, he had to tell someone about Prentiss. Someone had to know that she was planning something.

Pulling out his phone, he struggled to bring up his most recent conversations, fingers smearing blood onto the screen. Sasha. Sasha would know what to do.

He raised the phone to his ear, the streetlights swimming in and out of focus.

“Hello?”

Jon.

Martin’s eyes slid shut. Of course. His last text had been to Jon about the Popham follow up. Jon had said he had already finished recording the case and scolded Martin for being so late with his report. Tim and Sasha had had everything under control, anyway. Find someone else to bother.

He hadn't written that last part. Not out loud, anyway.

Through the phone, there was a familiar, irritated sigh and Martin blinked back to reality.

“I really hope this is important, Martin, I was rather in the middle of something.”

Martin swallowed, torn between, Oh, nothing, sorry to bother you, good night and, I’m dying and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you I love you so, so much.

The phone trembled in his hand and he gripped it as tightly as he could. If he dropped it, he wouldn’t have the strength to pick it back up again. Was he really going to bleed out here? In this dingy alley, in the middle of the night, in the rain? That would be … really bad …

“For God’s sake, Martin, I don’t have time for this.”

“S-sorry …” Have to tell him. Needs to know. “Jane …”

“Martin?” The bite in his voice fell away. “What’s happening? You sound—”

“Jane Prentiss …”

There was a pause, and then a sudden, violent clattering. “Where are you?”

“Um … I was just … Carlos Vittery …”

“Don’t move, I’m on my way. Stay on the phone. Martin? Martin?”

Ah. Now he’s went and gotten Jon all worked up.

“Sorry … tried to be useful …” He chuckled and it hurt. “Guess I should … know better by now …”

“Martin!”

At least he got to listen to Jon saying his name, like he was really worried about him or something. There were worse ways to go.

The phone slipped from his hand and everything fell away.

Martin awoke, slowly, first to the sound of a mechanical beeping, and then, hurried footsteps and outraged shouts. The door swung open and his drowsy eyes slid over to the figures that stormed in. His vision was still blurry, and he couldn’t make out their faces, but he recognized one voice.

“—know the policies and if you think you have any right to stop me—”

An unfamiliar woman came in behind him, haggard and face lined with stress.

“Do you know this man, sir?” she said to Martin.

Martin blinked sleepily, eyes moving back to Jon. His hair was wilder and more unkempt than he’d ever seen it.

“Yeah," he said. "He’s my, uh … boss?”

Jon turned to the woman with a victorious smirk, but the woman was already backing out of the room.

“Just press the assist button if he’s bothering you,” she said, closing the door with a sharp click. Jon glared at the door, grumbling irritably under his breath. Martin opened his mouth, but a wave of nausea swept over him and his question was lost in a groan.

Jon snapped towards him, his irritation flipping to stark concern. Taking a deep breath, Martin tried again.

“Where am I?” he asked, faintly. “How did I get here?”

“Whittington Hospital. According to the nurse, a pedestrian saw you and called the paramedics.” Jon took a seat in the spare chair by his bedside, dropping his satchel by his side. His expression could have been cut from steel. “You are incredibly lucky.”

Martin squeezed his eyes closed. He certainly didn’t feel very lucky. Not with Jon looking so upset. He was still wearing the same soft, grey jumper from this morning, which means he had come here straight from the Institute, and for some reason that distressed Martin even more.

“How did you know where I was?”

“Obviously, the Carlos Vittery you mentioned was the same from case #0150409 and I figured you must have been near the Archway area. I’ve been trying all the hospitals nearby asking for a man of your description.”

What little energy Martin had drained out of him, and his head sank into the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’d rather have me twiddling my thumbs in the archives while you were dying?”

“Sorry ...”

Jon pressed his lips together and he looked to the side. The severity of his expression gentled, and he turned back to Martin, his eyes softening.

“Are you alright?”

Martin’s heart fluttered.

“Well,” he managed. “Not dead. That’s a good start.”

Jon nodded, and then hoisted up his satchel.

“You were in surgery for a while, so I went out and bought some food, considering the stuff in hospital is so abysmal.”

“Oh. That’s … nice of you.” Also, wildly unexpected, but Martin wasn't saying anything. Hospital food was, in fact, not the greatest.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so …” Jon dumped a truly outrageous amount of granola bars, yoghurt, and crisps onto the end table. Some spilled over and he quickly reached down to scoop them up. “Yeah.”

A chuckle worked its way through Martin’s chest. It hurt, a little, but the pain was soothed by the sight of Jon juggling Hot Flamin’ Cheetos.

“Slight overkill, don’t you think?”

Jon snapped open a bag of cheese puffs. “Good to know my efforts are appreciated.”

“They are! They are.” With a muffled grunt, Martin reached over and plucked up a bottle of orange juice. “See? Look how appreciative I’m being.”

Jon hummed, flicking a cheesy puffball into his mouth. They both sat in silence, Martin sipping his drink and Jon munching through his crisps.

It must have been the longest time the two of them had ever been alone together. Though they were both quiet, it was a comfortable sort of silence. Just two people existing alongside each other. Reassured by their presence.

Then, Jon took a deep breath.

“I had no idea what to make of your call,” he said, folding the plastic bag into a small square. “I thought you were … You …”

Martin bit his lip, not wanting anything to slip out. Swallowing, Jon lowered his head.

“You had me worried.” Finally, Jon looked back up at him. His mouth was his usual grim, disappointed line, but his eyes shone with dark emotion. “Please don’t do that again.”

Jon had been really upset, hadn't he? Martin didn’t know how to feel about that. Embarrassed, certainly. Guilty, for putting Jon through such an unnecessary ordeal. But also … nice.

He traced the lip of his empty orange juice bottle.

Yeah. He felt nice.

“Well, I don't really fancy dying, so I guess I'll do my best.”

A tiny smile quirked the corner Jon’s lips. Martin had only a moment to savour it, though, as it quickly slipped away as he pulled a pen and paper out of his satchel, and Martin mourned its loss. Jon opened his notebook.

“What happened at Carlos Vittery’s flat? You said you encountered Jane Prentiss, correct?”

Yes. Back to business.

Straightening up, Martin cleared his throat.

“Right. So, something about his case didn’t sit right with me, and I decided to go back and investigate some more. You know, observe my due diligence, and all that …”

#the magnus archives #tma #themagnuspod #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #fanfiction #fic

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kvltprince · 5 years

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I was tagged by the lovely @leporidaefluff (Thank you! it was the push i needed to get started on this instead of just going oh~ neat~!)

Rules:

1. Choose an OC.

2. Answer them as that OC.

3. Tag 5 people to do the same. Sorry if anyone has already been tagged, no obligation. @ heathie on whatever acct cos im a dumbass an i miss your bois(you miss em too), @randomwordsandstormydays, @randomfuzzbunny, @jornaquinn @chrysocolladawn ( @somewhere-withoutyou if you would...) and anyone else who would enjoy doing this. (if i get tagged again ill do anther oc. i would tag a few others but i feel weird tagging ppl i dont like ever talk to lol.)

What is your name?

"Lucy Grandchester, yeah that one.”

How old are you?

“Fourty-five unless you are getting nitpicky about cryostasis. That doesn’t count unless I am joking with a ghoul, honestly.”

What do you look like?

He lets out a small half chuckle, "Oh, we are doing this okay. I’ll bite. Slightly short middle aged punk, long greying curly hair, undercut, with one leg and too many tattoos?”

Where are you from? Where do you live now?

Lucy uncomfortably takes down his hair and redoes his messy bun while sighing and becoming a bit short. “I’m from just the other side of that irradiated water near that gas station south of here. Name kinda gives it away. You have seen it? I honestly am not sure how it’s standing still between the bombs and everything else. It’s looked after now, and is a surprise asset to still have. I lived in Boston for a while after all that, and back in this area once Nuka World was opened, then back in the Boston area, and would you look at that I am back in Nuka World and it is a lot more comfortable now.”

What was your childhood like?

"...Unstable, for everyone. It got a bit better once my parents were dead... are we done with this line of questions? Or am I excusing you?”

What groups are you friendly with? Are you allied with any factions?

“Well, I started out trying to play nicely vaguely with anyone that didn’t try to shoot me first. That.... hasn’t stayed how it is. At least not fully, though i generally play nice until I am given a reason not to. I am friendly with the Disciples, the Operators, several of the Children of Atom groups that haven't irradiated their sense out of their heads yet, the Railroad.”

Tell me about your best friend.

He finally visibly relaxes the rest of the way after that history business, and takes a drink of a quantum. “Oh only one best friend? Are we in high school again? aw Alright. We have some parallel histories.” He swirls the glowing drink, but doesn't let himself get lost in his head too far. “Great humor, puts up with my shit somehow, doesn't blow my sneaking. Laugh that could take on the world even though they probably wouldn't. No I am not spoiling who I decided on. A man has to have some secrets somewhere and mine are in short supply”

Do you have a family? Tell me about them!

“My son Shaun never ceases to surprise me with what he can come up with, and how well adjusted he is. Codsworth is still helping out with the household, and helping keep Shaun from disassembling live turrets while I am away, though now he is living here at Fizztop with us. Surprisingly it seems to be an alright setup, and Shaun has taught a few people some upgrades in their downtime. There is enough room to keep things comfortable, and I have done some park remodeling since I arrived. My closest companions that don’t hate my choices I have made I consider family, but that has become a smaller circle than before.”

What about a partner or partners?

“Gage of course, he is my husband for whatever it is worth in the wasteland. Otherwise I suppose that depends how you are defining that. I am an affectionate person and some people seem to have rather strict definitions of where the edge of friend and partner should be”

Who are your enemies, and why?

“Several people aren’t speaking to me very well at best after I have settled into the Overboss seat here, on a personal level. The Pack were wiped out. The Brotherhood were wiped out. The Institute were wiped out. The minutemen are pretty pissed understandably. The Gunners still show up in vertibirds sometimes and are still pretty fun target practice. My settlements are generally comfortable, and my outposts mostly only have problems with gunners or trappers. Minor annoyances.”

Have you ever heard of The Brotherhood of Steel? What do you think about them?

“Yeah, of course. I think they got too headstrong for their flightsuits. I mean I understand but you really can’t do that shit and expect no repercussions. It was quite a firework show honestly, I wonder how far away the heat was felt..”

What about The Enclave?

"I don’t know much about them, only one of their ex-soldiers, he didn’t exactly tell me much. Cute, a bit odd. Not sure if it is the radiation that did that or not.”

How do you feel about Super Mutants?

He has a flash of a pensive thought drift across his face “There’s a few that aren’t so bad. Obviously the FEV isn’t mass-curable though, so not exactly much of a choice what to do about them unless you like getting a rocket launcher or a nuke in your face.”

What’s the craziest fight you’ve ever been in?

“Proobably~ around Bunker Hill, It was just, A Lot. That whole time was not just the specific fight. I don’t remember a lot of it, I’m pretty sure Gage half dragged me home after the main running around and meetings after the fight. I don’t think I had a full thought for a while.”

Have you ever fought a Deathclaw?

He thumb points to a sniper rifle leaning against the wall “Yeah, too often, thankfully usually I see them first, and I’ve gotten the sneaking thing down. They make pretty good steaks.”

Do you like fighting?

“Sometimes, honestly. Something tired and overstated about old habits or something boring. Really though, it is exciting and keeps the boredom away. Playfighting and sparring will do, no need to draw blood. I guess. Good to keep knife and sneaking skills sharp however you can.”

What’s your weapon of choice?

“A modded real sharp Throatslicer she called it, I swear Nisha found this thing in the loading dock or something it is the nicest box-cutter I have ever owned. Opens up anything.”

How do you survive? Your wits, your charm, your skills, brute force, some combination? (a.k.a. what’s your S.P.E.C.I.A.L?)

“Outlive everything around me usually by not being seen, notice it first, shoot it faster, stab it more, talk my way out of it, or by luck. I have zero real idea, but I can eat nearly anything and I bet that helps too.”

Have you ever been in a vault? What do you think about them?

"Of course, there are a bunch, and I was ushered into 111 to turn my life upside down. They seem to only be any good for salvage, horror stories, clean water sometimes, and if you are real lucky a trade post and a shave. I have a settlement vault that is doing well that I have taken over and built up, but that is not Vault-Tec related, obviously.”

How do you beat all the radiation around here? Has it affected you?

“I have a few recipes that are good for radiation, though it doesn't affect me very badly overall and I am slow to feel any sickness. I suspect that one day I will turn into a ghoul.” He is rather matter of fact and unbothered by this, and hints that he knows that not getting sick much from radiation means just that.

What’s your favorite wasteland critter?

“Probably the stags and gazelles and other herd animals. They are overall unchanged other than most have two heads now, they are still nice to watch”

What’s your least favorite wasteland critter?

“Honestly? radscorpions? Those fuckers are too quick and you cant shoot them cos they tunnel and they knock you on your ass and poison you and just UGH”

How do you feel about robots?

"Robots are alright if they are not causing trouble. Some of them are nice. Jezebel is not so nice, but she is guarding red rocket and bitching the entire time so shes no longer my problem. The Rust Devil’s robots are a pain in my ass for real.”

How many caps do you have on you right now?

"Plenty.”

Nuka Cola or Sunset Sarsaparilla?

He cocks his head slightly “I havent heard that one in a while. Depends on the flavor of Nuka Cola, I do like Sunset Sarsaparilla though, if you have any.”

Do you do chems?

"Not recreationally anymore. No, not because of him.” He nods toward Gage “It just, gets out of hand”

Do you ever think about the Pre-War world?

"Not as often as you would expect, I mean obviously there is the ‘oh i remember when that wasn't destroyed’ of things, but things are more comfortable than I thought they could be”

What’s your deepest regret? What would you do differently?

His eyes narrow slightly “I don’t really do regret. Things were done the way they were because it was the choice at the time. A choice now for an old situation isn’t helpful to living my current life or my old life. I am not living then, I am living now.”

What’s your biggest achievement? Or what do you hope to achieve?

“Surviving all of this, and myself. Creating this strange semi-stability in this post apocalyptic place.”

What do you want for the future? For yourself? Your friends? The world?

“Keep me and mine safe, happy as we can be, and I hope that my found-family never fully stops growing. Curious what the future holds for my raiders and friends, there is so much potential, it could be risky but it is there. For once it is a good solid place to be, and it’s mine.” Lucy polishes off his questionable as hell drink with a smile.

#lucy grandchester #oc interview #this is a bit messy but hey thats fine #longpost #wow no wonder it took so long

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bigyack-com · 4 years

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In a Field Dominated by Men, She’s in Charge

This article is part of our Women and Leadership special section, which focuses on women challenging traditional ways of thinking.Growing up in Meridian, Miss., Tonya Hicks adored working on cars and rebuilding motors with her Uncle Melvin, an industrial mechanic.“I learned all about my tools from ratchets to socket wrenches by handing them to him, and sometimes sliding under the cars to have a look,” she said. “Even as a 5-year-old, the back of my sundress would have oil stains and under my nails would be black — which didn’t go over well with Mama.”Her mother’s displeasure was just the first of a string of obstacles in the route Ms. Hicks followed to becoming an electrician and running a growing business. Discrimination, sexual harassment and that she is a woman of color were all hurdles as she made her way into the male-dominated industry. In the United States, 2.4 percent of electricians are women, and 9.5 percent of electrical contracting businesses are owned by women.Ms. Hicks, now 47, faced career pushback before entering the skilled-trades arena. Her math acumen earned her a scholarship to Central State University in Wilberforce, Ohio, where she was a math major with a minor in computer science. “I wanted to be a mathematician working on coding and computer software for the Defense Department,” she said.But during her sophomore year, her professional path hit a roadblock.“One of my instructors told me that those kinds of jobs were not readily available for a black woman,” Ms. Hicks said. “All of my dreams just came down. He said the best thing I could do is focus on becoming a teacher. I thought, ‘That is just not me.’”Her fortune changed during her summer break, when she landed work as a laborer at a paper mill. “It was exciting,” she said. “I saw how the industrial electricians were using math all the time.”She forfeited her scholarship and did not return to college in the fall. “My family thought I was a complete failure and letting everyone down,” she said.Her challenges continued. When Ms. Hicks applied for the apprenticeship program at her hometown electrical union, she found herself being interviewed by five white men.“They told me, ‘You know three white women tried before you and failed,’” she recalled. “‘Don’t you think it’s going to be hard you being a black female?’ And I said, ‘Nope.’”She was right. Ms. Hicks was the first woman to complete the five-year program becoming the first female journeyman electrician in Local 917 of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers (I.B.E.W.) and among the first few African-American women in Mississippi to do so. (Only 6.8 percent of electricians are black or African-American, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.)Ms. Hicks was tenacious. She traveled long distances to find work at car plants and steel mills and in the construction of airports from Mississippi to Michigan. She did not blink at being on the job 12 hours a day, seven days a week as she learned her trade.The workplace could be frustrating. “There were many times when I would show up at a job and no man talked to me, or acknowledged my presence,” she said. “Many times, the foremen on the jobs didn’t know what to do with me because I was the only woman. They would send me to the material trailer to clean it up, instead of working a job on the floor. That’s how I learned about the construction business and how to estimate. I would read everything I found there.”When a co-worker urged her to start her own business, she never looked back.“I had worked for nine different employers that year and was ready to take control of my career,” she said.So in 2000, Ms. Hicks started Power Solutions, an electrical contracting firm based in Atlanta that focused on commercial and industrial buildings and now specializes in renewable energy and smart-city technology. She was 28. “I bought a computer and had my business cards made with clip art of a woman electrician with a lightning bolt,” Ms. Hicks said. “That’s me.”To fund her start-up, she tapped into roughly $10,000 of personal savings. And she began networking with the Metro Atlanta Chamber of Commerce and women’s business groups. “These women helped me,” she said. “That was a culture shock. People accepted me.”The business will start operations in Singapore and the Netherlands this year.But she is not done. Ms. Hicks is assembling the next group of women to work in skilled-trade industries. With support of the Women’s Entrepreneurship Initiative, a city-funded incubator for women-owned businesses in Atlanta, her latest venture is a career development agency and training center to help women get jobs in male-dominated industries. It will start this summer in Atlanta, with plans for nine more centers to open in cities across the country, including Detroit and Englewood, Calif.“I am tired of being the only, the first,” she said. “I’m working to try to change that. I look at construction as the last frontier for women. I don’t think it’s any better than when I started. It takes a long time to change culture. And it’s not where it needs to be for women to feel there is a real opportunity.”Apprenticeships like the one Ms. Hicks held provide on-the-job training and are vital to the success of women in the skilled-trade sector. In 2017, however, only 7.3 percent of those completing registered apprenticeships were women.“Growing the number of women in construction or the trades is no small feat,” said C. Nicole Mason, president and chief executive of the Institute for Women’s Policy Research. “It takes a tremendous amount of coordination between work-force development programs, labor unions, contractors and the government. These are higher-paying jobs with benefits, and potential for increased earnings over time — all things that are particularly meaningful for working women with families.”But change has been incremental.“Although huge strides have been made over the last several decades, there does remain a significant lack of diversity of women and women of color in the skilled trades and construction industry,” said Vicki Anderson, the chief executive of Stevens Engineers and Constructors, based in Middleburg Heights, Ohio.The obstacles that Ms. Hicks encountered more than 20 years ago are still rampant. Sexual harassment is still an issue, according to Carolyn Williams, a retired director of the I.B.E.W. Civic and Community Engagement Department. “The biggest challenge for women entering the field is the sexism,” she said. “You think about that environment it has this macho connotation behind it.”While the numbers compiled by the Bureau of Labor Statistics are not indicative of a huge increase in women’s participation in the skilled trades, there are many groups now offering support, Ms. Williams said, and more tradeswomen are recruiting women and educating their unions on the obstacles and solutions to removing the barriers that women face in the skilled trades.Programs, like Chicago Women in Trades and Nontraditional Employment for Women in New York City, have built a channel for women entering construction and other traditionally male-dominated fields.“Women often get clogged in the pipeline due to the lack of support by male supervisors or co-workers, sexual harassment, or they do not receive the proper training or support to do all aspects of the job,” Ms. Mason said. “These jobs are also less flexible and do not provide support services for child care or take into account women’s disproportionate caretaking responsibilities compared to men. As a result, retention of women in nontraditional jobs and skilled trades can be difficult.”In fact, the Institute for Women’s Policy Research was recently awarded a three-year, $750,000 grant from the W.K. Kellogg Foundation to improve retention and advancement for women in construction and manufacturing fields.That mission resonates with Ms. Hicks. While she admittedly has been through some tough years as her business has gained traction, her biggest return has been “empowering women economically,” she said.“Being a boss is giving other people an opportunity to make money and to help them grow,” she said. “Not until you are building up another person are you a true leader.” Read the full article

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hottmessexpresss · 4 years

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**Trigger Warning** Those who are sensitive to topics such as: drug-use, over-dose, and language/descriptions/scenarios involving drugs and drug activity, please do not continue reading, or read at your own risk**

I remember I was in the parking lot of a 24 hour fitness in Bakersfield, Ca. I remember distinctly feeling like I was wrapped in a warm, weighted blanket. My breathing was shallow, but it felt "nice". I felt as if some large fluffy llama was sitting directly on my chest. Oddly enough, I felt at peace...and I felt very, very, sleepy. I didn't feel scared. I felt "whole" for the first time- I felt...happy.

Unknown time had lapsed and I woke up with vomit all over my shirt. I was dazed and confused, and blisfully unaware of my surroundings. I came to, and the passenger next to me was crying and repeatedly saying, "I don't want to go to jail. I don't want to go to jail."

That was my first and only opiate induced over-dose, and before Narcan has been heavily encouraged and issued. If you think that was enough to scare me, you're dead wrong.

Fast forward 6 years, give or take...and here I am sitting in the hospital watching my husband writhe in pain. He just had a total shoulder replacement surgery for a second time, at 42 years old (that is considered "young" for this type of evasive surgery.) My husband never shows he is pain, and has been dealing with this pain for over a year. Doctors never took him seriously. He didn't "look" to be in pain, and his physiological responses didn't "show" he was in pain. Often, there was frustration. Anger. Resentment. Not a soul believed him, and he had accepted he was going to have to deal with it for the remainder of his life. My husband served 21 years in the United States Military. His body is proof of what men and women can endure ensuring our freedoms are protected.

My husband has said, "If it weren't for these junkies, I wouldn't have to be jumping through hoops to be taken seriously." It didn't offend me. It didn't hurt my feelings. With the recent (but not new) opiate epidemic, my mind has been reeling with questions, thoughts, and residual pain. How* do we as a society, fix this problem? What can be done to HELP? What types of out-patient, low cost programs could make an impact in communities of these (addicts) people?

Drugs do not discriminate. When I was detained by the oh-so-lovely, Bakersfield Police Department back in 2014, I was treated as less than a person. "How long have you been doing drugs??? You're too pretty and young to be a tweaker." I was humiliated. I sat in silence, and in that moment "they" had won. I wanted to tell them....."If you only knew me.....if you only knew my story....my amazing, loving, parents...my upbringing, my home...my college education....." but to them, I was just 'another tweaker,' and another case number to report on. The stigma is there. I've seen comments on numerous facebook posts, "tweakers deserve to die." But my friends, they do not. If it weren't for the passanger in my car 6 years ago (even if it were for selfish reasons...AKA not going to jail) I would not have had my beautiful babies, and I would not have had a fighting chance to change my life in a productive and meaningful way.

Not even a full 24 hours after surgery, my husband's nerve block started to wear off. We paged his nurse for relief......and what happened? The on-call resident had a nurse bring my husband Tylenol. Tylenol. After a major surgery. I was offended, and in that moment, I felt embarrassed. There are people out here in this world in legitimate pain. Because of the sudden intensity of the current opiate epidemic, they (pain patients) were forced to taper off of their medication completely, or cut back harshly on their medication. Is this the right thing to do? Is this fair to those battling pain daily with the medical records to back it all up? This is where most addictions can start. "It's a prescription by my doctor... so it's fine." I can bet most do not abuse them, because of course, they need them. But there also people out in this world with emotional pain.

The first time I tried Oxycontin, I felt the effects relatively quickly. Battling depression since 12 years of age, I was dealing with my parents divorce and remarriages, new family dynamics, being a fat, and bullied nerd....I never took medication long enough to know if it would be helpful to me. So in that moment, naiive to what was to come, not knowing my genetic predisposition, I thought to myself, "so THIS is happiness....THIS is what "normal" feels like." And so began my endless and bottomless search for that euphoric happiness, and my self-medication began.

My husband was finally given an Oxycodone 11 HOURS later. It was horrible seeing his face knowing he was in unbearable pain. "We're giving you two doses of Oxycodone, Mr. Steele." My ears. I heard the name, and I knew it all too well. A former best-friend of mine; one whom I loved more than myself and loved more than anything else in this entire world at one point. The word itself, triggered me. Almost 6 years of being free and clear off that shit, and the word alone sent my neurotransmitters firing rapidly and excitedly. My brain started to illict a chemical and emotional response... to a fuckin' word*. I started to feel anxious. Uneasy. Worried. Angry. Jealous. To those who have never been addicted to drugs, this probably sounds absolutely CRAZY to you. How can someone be jealous of someone in legitimate pain and taking pain pills? Well, someone who had once before been EXCITED to fracture her thumb knowing she was getting pain pills (me). I knew* my husband needed them. I knew he had a legitimate reason to need them-but I felt* out of my mind. That* is addiction... That* is your brain fighting against the rational fibers of what is "normal". After addiction sets in, your brain under goes chemical changes. Your "Hedonic Set-Point" of happiness is altered and flipped the fuck upside down. You become addicted because you realize that the intense euphoria and happiness, that warm, fuzzy feeling in your stomach, the rush to your head...have all caused a peak beyond your "set point" of euphoria. You crave it, and you NEED it just to even function and feel "normal" If you don't use (drugs), your entire body shuts down and you become so sick (the flu times 500). So you continue to use and abuse anything to reach the level of "normal" (and beyond) in order to not feel like a depressed piece of shit. Rock bottom hits (whenever and however that is and may be, and some will never experience the same rock bottom) and you get clean, and your "hedonic set point" is reset and now, unrealistic. You soon realize you will never* feel that level of happiness again (sober). Social context, and psychological predispositions can trigger a response in your brain to want to achieve that chemical, unrealistic level- over and over again.

Recovering addicts face this day in and day out, and in this case, recovery** is a CHOICE. No one wakes up one day and says, "you know what? I'm going to steal from my family and act like a reckless fool and ruin my normalcy and fuck up my entire family (and my fuckin' credit score) Addicts can do bad things, but that doesn't make them bad people. They are the walking wounded. In the words of my favorite author, Charles Bukowski, "we don't even ask (for) happiness, just a little less pain." A close friend of mines addiction was so deep, she lost custody of her child and lost sight of everything she once loved. No one in their right mind* would EVER jeopardize the relationship and well being with their own flesh and blood. People who weren't addicted could never phatom this scenario, but addiction is* ugly. She passed away almost two years ago, leaving her daughter and family behind. Again, addiction can be so powerful and it trumps all things good. Addicts become selfish. Because they only care about themselves and their next fix. Unless they get the proper intervention, have kick ass insurance, and the will and reason deep down to stop, they won't. That's why in NA, they say some people's only way out of addiction, is jail, institutions, or death.

I feel embarrassed sometimes to admit any of this. Those who knew me in my active addiction phase, constantly said, "where* is Katelyn? Where* did she go? This is not* the Katelyn we know and loved..." Addicts have to first admit they are powerless over their addiction. Along with this, comes a mountain of shame, guilt, embarrassment, shame, and a total slap in the face of everything* they were covering up during their abuse. We have to essentially re-learn how to live life again. How to cope with underlying mental illness, how to cope with triggers, how to live day to day without their former best friend.

I wish deep down I wasn't this way. I wish deep down the muffled voice subtly nagging at my brain would stop. I wish i knew better. I don't feel this hardcore temptation anymore. In the beginning, everything felt "unfair" and life kept throwing punches at me and I struggled to handle them. I blamed others for my addiction and carried around SO much anger. One day, it clicked. No one forced me to do anything. Only I was to blame. I was responsible and accountable for what happened to me, and only I was responsible for changing my behavior. It was hard. Most of the time, it felt virtually impossible to stop. If any addict could take a magic pill to end the cycle and to start their lives over, I'm betting some- if not most, would. This blog isn't a debate on whether or not addiction is a choice. I could sit here and debate with anyone all day on this subject. This entry is merely pointing out a basic and yet complex struggle one can face years and years down the line during their recovery. I look back and feel accomplished. I overcame something not everyone has the privilege to escape from. Being clean, I was able to rediscover myself, reevaluate goals, mend relationships, and lead a meaningful life. I found my soul-mate and have two amazing babies. My hope for anyone struggling with addiction is to overcome. Take advantage of any and all local resources and dig deep down to find the desire to want to stop. It might take you more than one attempt to get clean. In NA, they mention over and over to never feel like relapse isn't possible and that it "won't happen" to you. Because it is possible. It can happen at any given moment, and there is always a chance of giving in to the demons you have worked so hard to manage and control. Make the concious choice to NOT give in to the monster, no matter how tempting it could be. You are loved. You are worthy.

"Just for today, my thoughts will be on my recovery, living and enjoying life without the use of drugs. Just for today, I will have faith in someone in NA who believes in me and wants to help me in my recovery. Just for today, I will have a program. I will try to follow it to the best of my ability. Just for today, I will be unafraid. My thoughts will be on my new association's- people who are not using and have found a new way of life. So as long as I follow that way, I will have nothing to fear." (Narcotics Anonymous, text)

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA)

1-800-662-4357

NA (Narcotics Anonymous)- find NA meetings and local resources for recovery.

http://m.na.org/

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oldadastra · 7 years

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Night falls: losing myself in the dark

Sometime last year, a funny post listing the Myers Briggs personality types of characters in The Force Awakens made the rounds. I happily reblogged it, partly because it made me laugh, but mostly because I was tickled that the OP had labeled Kylo Ren as INFP, the same type as me.

Comments on the original post expressed doubt that Ben Solo could be this personality type, and of course, this is an analysis of a fictional character, so it’s silly at its base. Nevertheless, Star Wars has always presented a lens through which we can explore elements of our culture and ourselves, so I found it useful to think about.

To me, the INFP assignment felt like it could be true; an introverted type, driven my deeply-held beliefs, with a tendency to go all in on causes which felt important. An ability to see multiple positions on an issue. Emotional, moral, poetic, impractical.

Without going too far into the weeds of personality tests and types, here’s a link to a test I took recently, and a link to the description of the INFP personality type.If you aren’t familiar with or interested in the Myers Briggs, you’ll probably want to scroll on, as this post is going to focus on politics and my own struggles to come to terms with the dark, using Ben Solo as my metaphor.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in recent weeks, as the political environment grows darker here in the United States. Each day unleashes some new horror in our civic realm, and I feel myself getting lost in the gathering darkness.

A little bit about myself: Most people who read my stuff know I’m old within the fandom (I’m 50). Here’s what I do for a living; for most of the past 25 years I’ve worked as a sculptor (in collaboration with my husband), creating artwork for pubic spaces. It’s an arts job that has taken us to diverse communities around the US where our process is to spend time listening to people to try to understand what makes their particular place special or important to them. We then create artwork which makes those values visible; inviting people to spend time together in their shared civic spaces, and hopefully, creating a more inclusive, beautiful, and lively environment in our towns and cities. Our work shows up in libraries, town squares, universities, transit stops, veterans homes, hospitals, parks, and other public spaces.

In my spare time, I’m part of our town plan commission, and president of the village merchant’s association. I lead rural arts activities, help out at our local museum, history festival and art fair, teach community education classes, and rescue stray and feral kittens. In short; I try to be a nice person, not an asshole.

To use a Star Wars analogy (which also works for me as a self-identified witch): I serve the light. I always have.

Until lately.

Aside: If you want to know more about me and the place where I live, here’s a link to an article in Politico in which me (and a bunch of my neighbors) are quoted at length. It was published on the day of the Inauguration.

Here’s a picture of me, taken by the photojournalist who came out to document my little part of the world. It was a sunny morning, about 15 below zero F, and I am feeding my sheep:

What does it feel like when a good heart goes bad?

I have lots of time to think while I’m caring for my flock of sheep and goats. and occasionally, insight strikes while I’m working at these mundane tasks. My whole Bloodline thesis? While flinging hay. The convictions that show up in my Jedi Killer essay? Hauling buckets of water to and fro. The explorations of the new saga as a possible meditation on universal themes of war and an exploration of moral injury? Those were late-night ruminations during lambing season last spring.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the American political situation, and my response to it. I’ve been working on an essay about the ways in which Rogue One provides templates for contemporary resistance, but this other thing has been in the way, and I need to write about it first: the darkness.

One of my friends, another handspinner who is also a therapist, was the one who told me to take a Myers Briggs test. When I told her I was INFP, she clapped her hands and said, “Ha! I thought so.” This was probably only a year ago, so it’s a new idea for me, but the category feels right. All those traits of an INFP personality - they feel familiar and true. Embracing the ‘label’ has helped me to better understand myself and the ways in which I prefer to engage with the world.

Which brings me back to Ben Solo. Kylo Ren.

In the weeks since the election, and in the days since the inauguration, I have felt myself falling to the dark side. As the process began, I thought about asking my friend, the therapist,

“What does it look like when an INFP goes bad?”

Then I realized I knew.

Kylo Ren is the template for a personality with a vivid moral code warped into violence. His is the pattern for strong emotion congealed into explosive rage burning, burning, burning, just beneath the surface; heavy, corrosive and hot in your chest. It is the outstretched hand twisting into the clenched fist.

I know because I can feel it happening to me.

In the Politico article, one of the local people interviewed by Michael Kruse said,

“It’ll be turmoil for four years. [Trump]’s like a firecracker in a keg of dynamite.”

Why, then, I wondered, did he vote for him? He put down his brandy in a plastic cup and looked at me.“Why not?” he said flatly. “Let it blow.”

This, and the guy’s other hateful comments, are part of what’s stoking my rage; my fall. In the darkness, I disagree with everything he says, except for this:

Let it blow.

I voted for Clinton. I was never excited about her candidacy, but Trump represented then, and is demonstrating now, that he is a clear and present danger to democracy, and I voted against that. Now that the worst has come to pass, in a strange way I agree with the vile man in the article; I saw the threat Trump and his cabal represent and voted to maintain the status quo. My neighbors (some of them might have been my friends) chose a different path, and here we are.

So be it. Let it blow.

And why not? The world is in trouble. If we are to build new ways of living, the old ones must pass away, yes? It feels as though the collapse is upon us; a self-induced crisis of epic proportions to which we must all respond. We’re invited to sweep the ground clean of everything that went before and start anew.

I know in my bones that these are dangerous times which demand the absolute best from all of us if people and institutions we care deeply about are to survive, and yet, every day I am failing. I am falling to the dark. I can feel it. and cannot find my way out.

Hate, deception, and cruelty are the markers of the new regime, and it is so easy, so very easy, to meet hate with hate.

Star Wars is helping me try to make sense of it. I spent much of the past year trying to understand the story of a fictional character, writing about the reasons he might have fallen - been seduced by the dark side, we like to say here in the GFFA - but I never really got it until now.

Surrendering to the dark side is easy. When war is brought to your doorstep, it feels simple and correct to meet it with war. When the people around you display their ignorance and bigotry, how else should one meet it but with righteous fury?

I’m lost. I thought I was Jedi, but it turns out I’m Sith.

Or not.

I’m struggling against this, the darkness. Even that is a revelation; the intensity of the struggle in my psyche, in my soul. It’s exhausting. I feel it as a heaviness in my chest, the hot buzz of too much blood in my veins.

I am a shepherd, perhaps the most cliched pastoral and peaceful job a person can do, but these days I tend to my flock and fight fantasies of violence as I tear gobs of hay off the bales to carry to my gentle animals. The steel tines of my pitchfork are polished with moving summer’s grass in winter, and they glitter in the guttering light of my headlamp.

I’m doing what I can; writing this helps, perhaps. Stepping out into the cold air of winter clears my head, if only temporarily. Marching helped. Speaking out and taking action helps. I’m talking to the wise ones in my circle; my friend Richard, a veteran activist who is headed back to Standing Rock this spring, and who seems to have cracked the code of non-violence. All the voices around me that feel less lost. I’m looking for the light. It’s there, I know it.

I’ve written so much about Ben Solo because I love him. He’s Han and Leia’s boy, after all. I’ve thought of him as though he were one of my own children, and the question of how to bring him out of the dark, how to get him home, has felt urgent for these reasons. Now for the first time, I realize he’s me.

Save Ben Solo

#kylo ren #star wars #dark side #save ben solo #politico #myers briggs #INFP #personal #trying to work shit out

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beldin327 · 5 years

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The Hardest Part by Padraic A. Harrison

The first thing Naomi saw when she opened her eyes was blood. She was lying in a pool of the red liquid on the floor. She lifted her head to gaze with curious eyes around the small cell and saw the second thing. Written in an unknown hand were the words, I hear the music. She examined her body with methodic care for the source of the blood. She found nothing.

Her whole left side was soaked. The gray sweatsuit stained red clung to her in the manner of wet clothes. She turned her attention to the rest of the room. The pool extended out into the hallway. She followed the trail but it ended without revealing from whence it came. All the doors were open leading to other empty rooms just like hers.

Where is everybody? She wondered.

They’re gone, said the voice. It sounded familiar to her yet she couldn’t remember why. She couldn’t remember anything except her name.

“Hello?” She called out to the empty building. Hoping the voice was somewhere outside her.

No need to shout, it whispered. I’m right here.

“Who are you?”

I’m you. And you’re me.

“And who am I?” There was no answer.

The hallway went on in both directions. She turned left for no reason she could think of. When she got to the end of the hallway she was faced with another choice.

“Which way should I go?”

Does it matter? The voice asked.

“I don’t suppose it does,” Naomi answered. She took a right and then another left. She started to hum as she danced through the hallways. She came to another hall that looked just like the others. More blood stained the wall. Scrawled across the institutional white paint were the words, I have seen the shadows dance to symphonies unseen. Naomi tilted her head at the sight. She wondered who wrote it and why they put it here.

She shrugged her shoulders and moved on. Her good mood shattered in an instant. The next corridor was the same as all the others. The hopelessness of getting out of the building weighed her down. She sank to the floor. The same floor with the same tile as the rest of the halls. She didn’t cry. Crying was useless. She just stared at the wall.

Hey, the voice whispered. It’s okay. Everyone takes a break.

“How do you know it’s going to be okay? What if this hallway goes on forever?”

It can’t, the voice that was her answered. Everything ends. Even the way you feel right now.

“When? When will it end?”

When the time comes, it told her. She wanted to rage against the voice but its words made too much sense. She picked at a loose thread from the sweatshirt. She fanned the flames of her anger into a campfire, allowing it to warm her. Spurred by it she rose and continued on. She was angry at her memories for fleeing her, angry at the building for keeping her here, but most of all at the blank featureless corridors and rooms which gave no hint of people or purpose.

Anger is good. Naomi agreed. Her anger kept her going. She used it. It used her. She let it. Welcomed it. Anything besides the pressing weight of her depression.

She was in this state of ire when she found the steel door. The other doors were all wooden things made of soft pine. The word exit blazed red above it. Wrath morphed inside her to become joy. She reached for the handle, wrenching it open. Stairs spun downwards. She threw herself towards them. The spiral carried her four floors down. The landing gave her two options.

One was to her right. Behind the door was a brick wall. Scratched by an unknown hand were the words Jean-Paul was here. She slammed the door refusing to despair. The door directly across from her was locked. She pounded on it with here fists until her knuckles broke open. Blood turned them as red as the stains on her sweats.

Feel better? The voice asked. It’s tone was amused.

“Much,” Naomi answered. She stared at her hands. Admiring the wounds.

We have to go back, the voice informed her. It’s the only way forward.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” She shouted at the air.

And the rest of this does?

Naomi sighed glaring at the locked door as if it by refusing to open it insulted her. She turned to go back up the stairs. She paused when she saw the message scrawled into the bricks. Her eyes narrowed at it. Her fingers itched to scrawl a second message but she didn’t want to waste any time. She walked up to the floor above where she found a door hanging off its hinges. Claw marks scored the door jamb. She didn’t want to go through.

It’s okay. I’m here with you. The voice gave little comfort. Sometimes a little is enough, especially when it’s all you have. She ran through the door and found herself on a roof. She went to the edge and looked over the city basking in the warm glow of the sun. She took out her penis and pissed off the edge.

"You made it!" She heard the voice outside her head for the first time. Her other self approached her.

"What’s going on?" She asked her shadow-self.

"I’m here to show you how to fly," her mirror-image explained. She reached for Naomi’s hand and for the first time she felt self-conscious. She was filthy and this other her was immaculate. She wiped her hands on the only clean spots on her sweats she could find. What if she’s the real me and I’m the fiction? She wondered. She flushed as she reached out her hand to clasp the vision’s hand.

"Look at me," she ordered. Her smile beatific as the sun created a halo over her head. She saw more than felt her body twisting as they fell through the air. There was a snap as wings burst from her shoulders and caught the air.

"Am I demon?" She wondered.

"There is no such thing as demons," her savior-self explained. "Only angels who’ve been through hell." Naomi smiled and flew on, never looking back.

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wait-what-no-way · 7 years

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Interview with LADY ECHO

“Born in South Miami during the mid-1980’s, Emerald (also known as Echo or Lady Echo) grew up as the youngest and only daughter in a family of three boys. As a young girl, her favorite activity was riding on the back pegs of her oldest brother’s bike while being taught how to read the signatures of Graffiti artists from around their neighborhood. By 1994, Emerald had a “tag” and was learning how to use spray paint. In 1999, she began pursuing Graffiti and Art as a passion. She attended a pre-college program at Pratt Institute in New York City (just before 9/11) during the summer of 2001, receiving only a month of formal training in painting, drawing and art history. She has continued painting ever since. Many of Emerald’s works can be found interacting in public spaces throughout the United States and Europe, or rolling along freight lines from the United States to Mexico and Canada.” (Emeraldartstudio.com)

So since your last interview in 2008, how has life been?

Life has been real! Lots of ups and downs in the past eight years. My best friend OiL died the year following that interview... I went into a bad depression. Poke BS, the only person in NYC who looked out for me at that time, died 8 months later. My older brother died a year and half after that.

In a span of 2 years, my protectors, the men who (although would give me so much shit in between us) wouldn’t let anyone fuck with me, were taken before I could realize how valuable they were. I spent the next several years in a bad place. It took a lot to figure out how to be happy again. I’m still kinda traumatized, I panic that the people I care about are going to die all the time. I panic that I’m going to die all the time – which is why I am constantly producing as much as I can. I don’t really party anymore, I don’t drink anymore, I don’t socialize very often, I stay in and I work on my legacy. I feel immense pressure to create while I still can. I feel immense pressure to leave things on good terms with people I care about as much as I can. I know how fragile life is, I’ve learned that even the strongest bonds are temporary, and I no longer take it for granted.

Also, since my last interview, Nekst - arguably one of the strongest American bombers in our current generation of Graffiti, passed away. Iz the Wiz passed away. Sace passed away. Countless other Graffiti writers have also died. Does this mean we, as Graffiti writers, are a culture of troubled people who will die young in higher percentages? I’m not sure but I’m well aware of the possibility.

Aside from that - technology has changed at a super rapid rate in the past 8 years. Smart phones became a thing, pay phones went extinct, social media emerged, instagram replaced Flickr (for me), information is being shared and spread at rates faster than ever before in our civilization, food (and nearly anything) can now be ordered through an app on your phone. It’s an interesting time to be alive!

When did you start writing?

I learned about Graffiti as an 8 year-old in the early 90’s - and even had a tag, E.C.K., but didn’t actually start seriously writing until 1999.

How many trains do you think you’ve painted since you started?

I honestly have no idea how many.. It’s gotta be in the hundreds, maybe even a thousand or more? It takes a lot of cars before you actually make a dent. I hope one day my panels get a catalogue raisonne like fancy artists do with their art works.

What was your first train painting experience like?

Clumsy and inexperienced! Growing up in Miami, I spent most of my life in sandals. My dumb ass walked into the freight yard with flip-flops and busted my big toe on a pile of rocks within 45 seconds of being in there.. My foot bled the entire time I painted, but I finished my piece - on a Chessie System coal car. I still have a scar from that day.

Some writers love painting trains more than walls. What about you?

I prefer trains. I love smooth metal on clean trains but also love working on the rough, rusted surfaces of freights. Trains come more naturally to me than a clean wall. A panel that will end up moving with a train is more forgiving and less intimidating for me than a flat wall that will blatantly showcase any mistakes I make.

As an artist, what’s your favorite medium to use other than spray paint?

Stainless steel. I love welding and if you weld it properly, stainless steel will produce a rainbow of colors from the oxidation of the metal.

I also like epoxy resin, it allows me to make sculptures out of objects like used spray cans.

What was the most thrilling experience you’ve ever had while you were out painting?

Hmmm. Graffiti is always kind of a thrill for me, regardless of how big, little or insignificant what I’m doing is.. There are different kinds of thrills for me with painting - some are fun, but some are hectic. Seeing my work running years later is a thrill for me. Discovering new mediums and new instruments is a thrill. Recently doing fire extinguisher tags thrilled the shit out of me - like, had me smiling all night and doing a little back-it-up dance kinda thrill.

Guess the most direct answer: I haven’t had a most thrilling experience yet, cuz I never know what to expect, the thrills just keep coming :)

What type of music do you enjoy listening to while you’re painting a canvas or any type of work outside of the streets?

I listen to music literally all day (if I’m not listening to the news), it helps me work and it just feels necessary. I’m probably more into music than I am into art - even though I’ve never made music or ever had an interest in trying.

I listen to all kinds of music: Rap, Hiphop, Soul, R&B, Folk, Metal, Alternative, Jazz, Pop, Electronic, etc, etc, etc. Obscure stuff as well as super mainstream. Just depends on my mood or the feeling I need or want at the time. Music gives me a physical reaction, so certain songs feel better than others and sometimes I overdo songs that make me feel really good - to the point they no longer feel good and I can’t stand to hear them ever again.

My favorite song, since 1992, is “Minds is Playing Tricks on Me” by Gheto Boys - The melody really spoke to me as a kid and it can still give me chills if the mood is right. Since then, my other favorite is “In a Sentimental Mood” by John Coltrane.

My favorite albums of all time are “Live and Dangerous” by Thin Lizzy, “Ready to Die” by Notorious BIG, “Table Scraps” by MHZ (Megahertz), “Give Up” by The Postal Service.

I was going to start listing artists that I like but it would take forever. Instead, if people are interested in my music taste, they can check out the playlists on my youtube channel: youtube.com/c/emeraldartstudio. So far I’ve made 3 lists: Dance party station, Rap station and Soul station. I listen to these playlists all the time and I add to them whenever I have a free moment.

What’s your favorite aspect of Graffiti? Is it piecing, hand-styles, throw-ups, or everything?

My favorite aspect of Graffiti is that one can never run out of surfaces on which to get up or instruments to do it with. I love tagging, I love throwups and I enjoy piecing too. It’s all fun to me, but some endeavors require more work than others. Tags and throwups are quick but require more strategy than a piece sometimes, even though a piece can be grueling effort-wise.

I prefer to paint super readable spots that will be seen in motion, whether the surface is moving (train, truck etc.) or the viewers are moving (trainline spot, highway spot, etc).

What’s you biggest motivator/ inspiration that drives you everyday to be creative? That skirt you made the line of drips on was rad as hell.

My biggest motivator is death. Like I mentioned before, since so many people close to me have died unexpectedly, I have a panic inside of me that I’m gonna die very soon. I’m extremely concerned with my legacy and I think the work I leave behind is what matters.

As for inspiration - I’m just a creative person. My mind searches for that “new new” all the time. I like to experiment and try stuff that I’ve never seen, I like to put new spins on traditional things. Monotony exasperates me, I can’t even walk down my own street the same way more than a few times. I’m constantly exploring. I like to go where I’ve never been. I like to have fun and be silly, even if I’m alone, there’s never a boring day.

Glad you like the skirt with ink drips! It was a spin on an idea I had for photoshoot with black drips on skin, combined with my obsession for edding ink + the recurring theme of edding ink in my artwork. I wanted something funky to wear out that night and nothing in my closet was cool enough so somehow I had the idea of dripping black ink on my white skirt and took the risk. The dried ink was smudging at first so I sprayed it with rusto clear coat to seal it. The ink stained the vegan leather of the skirt, but the sexy surface black ended up cracking off by the end of the night. It was a one-time item, but very fun to rock!

What’s the coolest place you’ve ever had the opportunity to paint in? (State, country, abandon spots wise.)

Hmmm… I think one of the coolest places to paint that I’ve come across is an abandoned factory in New Jersey - I have bad memory for some details so I can’t remember who took me to find it (maybe Tacoe). The factory had several floors, lots of walls, and old locker rooms for the workers, with a lot of stuff still in the lockers (including old porn magazines which I know I have photos of somewhere). For a while after we found it, I was the only person painting there along with whoever I selected from NYC to join me. I think I had like 5-6 pieces in there in the course of a few months. It was super cool to have an entire building painted with Graffiti that I basically got to curate.

Aside from that, I’ve had the opportunity to paint a freight spot that’s near the ocean. I’m a big fan of ocean, and a big fan of freights, so getting to combine the two is almost surreal. Imagine finishing an end to end, high as hell on paint fumes, looking up at the bright moon and stars, hearing ocean waves crashing as the moonlight melts onto your piece. It’s like a dream.

What’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever experienced in an abandoned spot?

Never really had too many creepy things happen while painting, but the creepiest thing that’s ever happened in my life was on a “work” road trip with detour to the Grand Canyon. I was travelling with a friend, we were staying close to the monument the night before and had planned to visit in the morning. We requested a room with two beds, but when we got to the room there was only one bed.. We soon discovered there was a door in the room which led to another room which had its own bed and bathroom. We assumed they either gave us the suite on purpose without saying so or that it was an accident, but we decided to use the second room either way.

I locked the manual door latch (which prevents the door from being opened even if someone has a key) and proceeded to wash my face and get ready for bed. B was in the room next to me and spoke to me thru the connecting door, told me he had to grab his shorts from the car so he could shower and would be right back. I was in the bathroom and heard a door slam closed.

When I finished I walked out, I heard B’s shower going next door but noticed the door latch on my door (in the second kinda sketch room) was open - which I thought was weird cuz B could have walked out of his own room - especially since we didn’t even know if we should be in the second room and he saw me make a point to latch the door when we first walked in.

I relatched the door and waited in B’s room watching tv. When B got out of the shower, I asked him if we could use his door only to go in and out of the room so that the door of the second room I was in would stay locked. I explained that when I got out of the bathroom my door latch was open and I was concerned someone could just walk in if they had the key.

“Emerald, but I didn’t go out of the door of that room. I went out of this door. Yours should have stayed locked, I didn’t unlock it.”

I looked at him in shock. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No, I swear.”

We both walked back into the second room and the door latch (which I had JUST reclosed) was open again. This time there was no possible way that B had opened it. We closed it again and watched to see if it was faulty and might open on its own. It didn’t. I got chills up my arms and tears started streaming down my face. B was in shock too, he didn’t know how to handle me crying but I could tell he believed I wasn’t fucking with the door latch either.

I ended up grabbing all my shit out of the second room and slept in the same bed as my homie that night. We both agreed it was probably a ghost and that the motel we were staying at had probably been built on some ancient Native American burial ground or something. I still get tears when I think of it. Creepiest shit ever.

This is probably a difficult question to ask, but what’s the most monumental piece you’ve ever done?

Hmmmm… I hope I haven’t done it yet! I hope I still outdo everything I’ve ever done. I don’t want to be stagnant. I don’t want my highest achievement to be in the past, I want it to happen as often as possible.

Most people probably wouldn’t know you have a dog unless they follow you on Instagram or actually know you. (Who, by the way is very cute.) What made you decide to get a dog and how has she changed your life

I’ve wanted a dog for a while and circumstances finally aligned for it to happen.

Also, after so many super disappointing experiences with disloyal people, I figured adopting a dog would be a safer bet than trying to connect with another person who betrays me. I rescued a pitbull mix and she’s changed my life in a lot of ways - it’s like having a kid, I take care of her before I take care of myself. She’s so smart and makes me laugh all the time with the things she does. She’s really strong and fast, but is the sweetest little thing ever + possibly a winner for the world’s best snuggler award.

I can’t imagine living without her but have already prepared myself for the fact that dogs have 13-15 yr lifespans. I get mixed emotions sometimes when I watch her sleep - relief and shock that they almost killed her at a shelter and then kinda sad knowing I’m probably gonna outlive her and that there will be no other creature just like her. Aside from that and all the work involved, having a dog is the coolest thing ever!

What do your parents know about your Graffiti lifestyle?

My dad died when I was a kid, so I was raised by my mom and brothers. Yes, they know about it - in general, not necessarily all the details of what the lifestyle involves but they know I’m a writer.

When I was a kid, in the early 90s, my oldest brother wrote Graffiti and my mom was cool with it. She was cool with all his Graffiti friends hanging at our house, she even had her own tag, “Mom1” and would ask them to put her up + she would get excited when she saw them up on the highways or tags on toll booths etc.

When was 15 and started writing, and my mom found flicks, I got in so much trouble! It was OK for her son, but not for her daughter. I had to change my tag so my mom didn’t know what I wrote and I didn’t take photos of my Graffiti for the rest of the time I lived at home. During that time she found out (through one of my oldest brother’s friends) that I changed my tag to Echo but since she never caught me with photos, she could never prove any of the stuff she saw was done by me.

I moved out of her house before I graduated high school and after that she couldn’t tell me what to do so eventually I decided to be super open with her about what I was doing. In her attempts to finally have a close relationship with me, she was all of a sudden cool with it.

I remember when I lived in New Jersey at one point, she said she wanted to visit and do what I do - so I asked her if she was down to do backjumps on some subway trains and she said yes! I refused to take her but she insisted she wanted to spray. She’s never actually painted with me or really even made efforts to follow my work, but I have sent her flicks before and she has told me that she looks for “Echo” or “OiL” whenever she sees a train passing. She met OiL a few times and tells me that she remembers him fondly.

My oldest brother, who put me onto Graffiti to begin with, has reprimanded me a few times for writing on shit. Even so, I think he digs that I’ve gone so far with it and I think he respects my choices. I know he’s proud of me even if he doesn’t really think Graffiti is smart for me to do.

My older brother who passed way (I have three older brothers btw), never really liked it. He didn’t like that I would be out late at night with guys, didn’t like that I was going into train yards (with guys) and didn’t trust any of my guys friends - he was convinced my friends were going to sexually assault me or had already been trying to rape me in my sleep when I was on Graffiti roadtrips, etc.. On the other hand, he was also so amazed that I could get away with so much - like, statistically, he couldn’t believe how many times I had painted illegally and not gotten in trouble. I remember one night after telling him about a super-close call while painting in NYC, he was super stoned, got some sort of epiphany from my story, and explained to me, “The key to getting away with anything... is a girl.... All you need is a girl and you can get away with anything.”

What spots have you hit that you may have risked your life painting?

Ugh - recently did some seriously sketchy shit about 23 feet high on a ladder. The person I was painting with, who had just caught a fire extinguisher tag on the rooftop of a building - with security guard not far from us on the ground level - insisted that he could not bring the extinguisher down with him and that I needed to climb up and get it.

The logic of why he wouldn’t be able to climb down with the extinguisher and why I was able to do it made no sense to me - but I needed him to shut up and get down, so I climbed up to get it.

The extension ladder was lifted to the max and still had a grip of space before the roof so he had to hand the extinguisher down to me from several feet above, and there was no chance of placing it into my hand - he was gonna have to drop it down (even tho there’s no logical or realistic way I could have grabbed it from the bottom). (As I’m typing this, I still don’t know how I agreed to do this). With one hand holding the ladder, I reached up above my head to have him drop a huge (way bigger than normal size) fire extinguisher into my small lady hand. I obviously couldn’t hold it and somehow (without falling off the ladder) repositioned the fire extinguisher mid-air, slid the bottom between my chest and the ladder and hugged it with my free arm and began to climb down. The entire time I was climbing down he kept going on: “Holy shit, you’re such a fucking gangster… You’re a fucking G.” I was shaking and my heart was racing from the adrenaline but I made it down safely and we didn’t get caught by the security guard. Definitely never doing that ever again.

New rule: You climb up with it, you climb down with it. Fuck that.

My final question… Are you a pizza or pasta gal?

Is both an option? I eat pizza and pasta more than once a week. If it’s a nice Italian restaurant I’m getting some form of pasta, but if it’s not boushie spot then I’ll go for the greasy pizza. Favorites: Joe’s Pizza on Carmine in Manhattan, Garage Pizza on Sunset in LA (yes, there’s decent pizza in LA!) and La Pizza on la Croisette in Cannes.

Thank you for all of your time Echo!

Thanks for the interview! Super cool to follow-up with the same website 8 years later. I don’t do many interviews so these will be valuable one day :)

For those interested:

ECHO’s website: Emeraldartstudio.com

Instagram: @Emeraldartstudio

Facebook.com/Emeraldartstudio

OiL’s instagram: @crudeoilforever - All original flicks, no tributes!

Echo’s interview with Bombing Science in November 2008: http://www.bombingscience.com/echo-interview/

#ECHO #ECHOiL #Graffiti #LAGraffiti #LosAngelesGraffiti #California #CaliforniaGraffiti #LadyLiberty #Interviews #WritersInk

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