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quotesfrommyreading · 1 year

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In the late 19th century, intellectuals believed that the sporting arena simulated an impending age of Darwinian struggle. Because the United States did not hold a global empire like England’s, leaders warned of national softness once railroads conquered the last continental frontier. As though heeding this warning, ingenious students turned variations on rugby into a toughening agent. Today a plaque in New Brunswick, New Jersey, commemorates the first college game, on November 6, 1869, when Rutgers beat Princeton 6–4.

Walter Camp graduated from Yale in 1880 so intoxicated by the sport that he devoted his life to it without pay, becoming “the father of American football.” He persuaded other schools to reduce the chaos on the field by trimming each side from 15 players to 11, and it was his idea to paint measuring lines on the field. He conceived functional designations for players, coining terms such as quarterback. His game remained violent by design. Crawlers could push the ball forward beneath piles of flying elbows without pause until they cried “Down!” in submission.

In an 1892 game against its archrival, Yale, the Harvard football team was the first to deploy a “flying wedge,” based on Napoleon’s surprise concentrations of military force. In an editorial calling for the abolition of the play, The New York Times described it as “half a ton of bone and muscle coming into collision with a man weighing 160 or 170 pounds,” noting that surgeons often had to be called onto the field. Three years later, the continuing mayhem prompted the Harvard faculty to take the first of two votes to abolish football. Charles Eliot, the university’s president, brought up other concerns. “Deaths and injuries are not the strongest argument against football,” declared Eliot. “That cheating and brutality are profitable is the main evil.” Still, Harvard football persisted. In 1903, fervent alumni built Harvard Stadium with zero college funds. The team’s first paid head coach, Bill Reid, started in 1905 at nearly twice the average salary for a full professor.

— The Scandal of NCAA College Sports

#taylor branch #the scandal of ncaa college sports #history #sports #ncaa #politics #american politics #imperialism #colonialism #education #football #rutgers university #princeton university #yale university #harvard university #harvard stadium #walter camp #charles william eliot #bill reid

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dandthegods · 1 year

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Limitless

The Gods are everywhere, you just have to look. They’re not trapped stagnant in the myths and stories, nor in the stale histories of cultures long past. Omnipresent in their own ways, the Gods can connect with anyone at any time.

Athena can be found walking the aisles of a Harvard library, in the study room with a first generation college student, or in between the cardboard pages of a child’s first board book. Knowledge isn’t limited to the elite or the privileged, and neither is Athena.

Apollo can be found in the galleries of prestigious art museums, in the bedroom of an aspiring anime artist, or in the imagination of a child scribbling with crayons. He is on the stage of a sold out stadium as well as in the back row of the cheapest seats. Art and creativity isn’t limited to those with influence or connections, and neither is Apollo.

Hephaestus can be found in the offices of any corporate building, under the machinery of a blue collar factory, or in the joy of a teenager as they receive their first paycheck. He is found in the Paralympics, boosting the athletes onward, and he is also sitting with the hospital and rehab rooms of those recently disabled. Hard work is not limited to anyone’s status or abilities, and neither is Hephaestus.

Aphrodite can be found on the covers of fashion magazines, in the dreams of an hopeful makeup artist, and in the playfulness of a child playing with their mother’s lipstick. Aphrodite can be in the appeal of sexy fishnets or the allure of a well tailored suit. Beauty and love are not limited to one’s gender or skills, and neither is Aphrodite.

Hermes can be found flying alongside the highest reaching airplanes, the fastest driving cars, and on a seat on public transit in rush hour. He is the luck that saves the lives of a vehicular accident, and the thrill in that first payment on a used car. Luck and speed are not limited to how far or how fancy your transportation can go, and neither is Hermes.

Zeus can be found behind the bench of a supreme court case, in the office of an overworked pubic defender, and in the thunderous laughter of a new father. He is in the welcoming smile of a stranger to those in need, and in the homeless being invited in. Justice and hospitality are not limited to one’s power or status, and neither is Zeus.

Hera can be found in a fabulous wedding with hundreds of guests, in the celebration of a long lasting marriage, or officiating the ceremony in a courthouse. She is in the “I love you”’s before bed, the hands held in the car after a first date, and in the hospital room of an elderly couple saying goodbye for the last time. Love is not limited to the length of one’s relationship, and neither is Hera.

Artemis can be found in the fields and forests of nature, in the calm breath of a hunter, or in the tears of grief for a lost pet. She is the courage in the voices fighting for respect and in the cheer of progress made. Equal treatment peace is not limited to those who hold the power, and neither is Artemis.

Hestia can be found in the jingle of a first-time homeowners’ new keys, in the shared dinner of a multi-generational home, or in the exhausted smile of a single parent. She is the warmth of a household and the love shared within its walls. Family and support is not limited to those you share blood with or in the size of your dwelling, and neither is Hestia.

Ares can be found in the measured steps of a solider over seas, in the joyous tears of a spouse when their loved one comes home, and in the flag wrapped around a coffin. He is in the voices of those calling for change, in the recovery rooms of the wounded, and in the minds of those struggling with trauma. Safety and wellness are not limited to one’s demographics and neither is Ares.

Hades can be found in the grief left behind after a death, in the weight of responsibility of leaders, and in the darkness of winter. He is with those who cry and fear for their lives, and in the scars left behind the pain can be too much. Loss and recovery is not limited to those strong enough to withstand it and neither is Hades.

Persephone can be found in the joy at the first warm day, in the love bridging distance between lovers, and in the will of those daring to strive for their dreams. She is the wonderment of a child at a honeybee, and the beauty found in the darkness. Energy and strength is not limited to the times of light and color, and neither is Persephone.

Demeter can be found in the engines of the machines in a field, in the bounty of a community garden harvest, and in the first sprouts of an amateur gardener. She is the change of the seasons and the rebirth of the new year. Change and plenty are not limited to those with capital or land, and neither is Demeter.

Dionysus can be found on the floats of a pride parade, in the movements pushing for equality, and in the bedroom of a closeted teenager. He is both the euphoria and dysphoria felt by some in their bodies, and in the community embracing those who feel lost. Rights and identity are not limited to those who one loves or how one looks, and neither is Dionysus.

Poseidon can be found on the decks of a ship in a storm, on the docks with a father teaching his son to fish, or in the serenity on a sandy beach. He is the joyful screams of children running from the waves and the persistence in one learning how to swim. Power and possibility is not limited to the oceans and or one’s skills, and neither is Poseidon.

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hasgavlebockenburneddownyet · 5 months

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With the birds eating the goat this year, do you think we could Harvard stadium pigeon prank the next goat?

What does this mean?

#gävlebocken #ask

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buckychristwrites · 10 months

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When the Rain Gathers | Prologue | j.t.

↳ Pairing: Jamie Tartt x f!reader

↳ Word Count: 2k

↳ Summary: Pain hits like a downpour, but when a heartbreak from your past is what greets you at your new job at Nelson Road Stadium, it's more like a catastrophic tsunami.

↳ Warnings: Enemies to lovers, Discussion of parental abuse, fluff and angst.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Main Blog

Early August, 2017

“Do you have to go?”

“I do. Or else I’ve wasted a lot of money on a flat and new furniture.”

It was pouring outside, but that didn’t stop you from standing in the drive of your boyfriend’s house. Your car was packed to the brim with belongings, not leaving any space to see out the rear windscreen. He was standing with you, his hair matted to his forehead from the rain. The air was a weird mix of cold and hot, or maybe it was just you.

You reached out to brush the locks back into place. As your hand fell back to your side, he caught it in his.

“Why’d ya have to go all the way to fuckin’ Harvard for uni?” Jamie asked loudly so you could hear him over the rain pounding on the sidewalk.

“Because they have the best Psychology program,” You explained, though you weren’t able to say it with your entire chest. Two years had been spent at the University of Manchester, and while you had dreamt of the opportunity to go to the United States to finish your degree at Harvard, you never allowed yourself to believe it would actually happen. And now it was, with a full scholarship at that. While you were beyond excited, there was a lot to consider, and lot you were leaving behind.

Jamie, using your hand that he was still holding, pulled you towards him.

“I’m gonna miss the fuck out of ya,” He said gently, pressing his forehead against yours. You tried to smile playfully.

“It’ll pass. You’ll be too busy being a football star soon enough,” You muttered, averting his eyes. That was what had ruined the plan. Jamie had every intention to move to the US with you, even signing the lease to the flat with you and starting the process of packing up his belongings. What brought that to a screeching halt was the call from Man City.

They were putting him on the team. A starting striker, at that.

His days in the Ametuar League were finally behind him at the worst possible time.

Despite the immense pride you felt for him, you also were devastated over the change of plans. It was going to feel impossible. Going from seeing him every day to only seeing him when the both of you had the money and free time to travel internationally, which wouldn’t be as often as either of you would like.

The last year flashed through your mind. A lifetime was how long you had known Jamie Tartt, having been neighbors for as long as you could remember. But it was only just over a year ago that the festering feelings the two of you had been building for each other finally came to a head. He knew every piece of you, the good and the bad, and you him. The amount of laughs spent, the amount of tears on each other's shoulders, the amount of pointless arguments that ended with flowers from his mum’s garden scattered on your doorstep, they felt countless in this moment.

It still didn’t feel like enough time. You found yourself yearning for another hour. Even another minute.

“Any parting words?” You asked him, giving his hand a squeeze. He cocked his head to the side.

“You’re gonna kill it at uni,” He mumbled, taking another step closer so there were no steps left between you and him. “Don’t get in ya head too much. You’re better than all of ‘em.”

Despite the rain, you felt the warm dampness streaming down your cheeks. You tried to wipe away the tears, but they just kept falling.

“Are you still gonna call me before every match?” You asked, voice choked up from the pain. He looked so calm. Something about it killed you.

“I’ll have to, since ya won’t be at them.”

“What if you have a pa-“

“I’ll call ya over paint dryin’, if ya want.” You laughed, shaking your head. For a long moment, you stared at your car. The one that you were driving for the last time. It wasn’t all that long ago that Jamie went with you to pick it out. The memory was vivid in your mind.

“What am I going to do without you?”

This is where he kissed you, pulling you in with his hands pressed to your cheeks. The intention for both of you was clear: This kiss had to count, because who knows when you’ll get to do it again?

“You’ll always have me,” He said against your lips, as if he wasn’t knew he needed to say something but wasn’t ready to end the kiss just yet. he needed to speak but couldn’t bear to end the kiss. When his lips finally left yours, he smiled softly, though his eyes were wet. “I just won’t be next door anymore.”

Your teeth were chattering while staring at him, but you didn’t complain. The anxiety ate away at your chest.

Though the redness in his eyes suggested it wasn’t the time, Jamie laughed as he opened the door to your car, giving you a sad smile as he rested his hand on the rim of the doorframe.

“Can’t stand here all day, can we?” He said quietly.

It was overwhelming how real it all became in that moment. You threw your arms around his neck, his arms instinctively wrapping around your torso. His clothes were soaked through, as were yours. There wasn’t a single part of you that wasn’t unaffected by the rain, but you couldn’t seem to allow yourself to get in the car.

Suddenly, Jamie was moving, forcing you to go with him. Your feet backed up as he moved himself forward so you wouldn’t fall. Your knees hit the side of the driver’s seat, and suddenly Jamie was lowering you down.

“You’re gonna miss ya flight.”

You shook your head before saying, “I’m gonna miss you.”

He closed his eyes as he said, “I’ll miss ya too.”

The pain was searing through your chest and down your back as he shut the door. You were desperate for one last kiss, but you knew what his eyes were telling you. One more would just lead to two. And then three. And then you would never leave.

Finally, after lagging behind for too long, you turned the engine to the car on, your hands working in slow motion while you shifted into reverse. As you drove away, Jamie walked out into the street and waved. You wondered if he would run after the car, and found yourself disappointed when he didn’t. Instead, he continued to watch, hands in his pockets. Tears and rain water dripped onto the seat between your legs as you watched him through the rearview.

Jamie got smaller and smaller as you drove away, until the road began to slope, and he disappeared from sight.

Early August, 2020

You woke up alone.

The right side of your bed was empty. When you felt the sheets, they were cold, suggesting they had been bare for a while now.

With an arm holding the sheet to your chest, you sat up quickly. Your eyes were baggy and drooping, but you were alert.

“Jamie?”

Your feet hit the floor, which was no longer littered with his clothes, though yours still remained scattered. As you left the bedroom, you listened for any signs of life. Maybe he was simply having a shower, or making himself a bite to eat. But no such evidence could be heard. The only sound echoing through the flat was rain hitting the windows. Panic rose inside your chest.

“Jamie…”

In an instant, you were down the hallway and entering the living room.

Empty.

His shoes by the front door had disappeared.

He’s out to pick up coffee, or breakfast, you told yourself. Or maybe he just went for a walk to explore.

It wasn’t like him. To just disappear.

Although, the Jamie who had arrived on your doorstep the morning prior really wasn’t the Jamie you had known since you were in nappies.

Despite your nonexistent free time since starting your masters degree in sports psychology, you did your best to continue to follow Jamie’s rising football career on the other side of the Atlantic ocean. He was now quite the commodity in England, though still relatively unknown in the United States. It was strange, getting a different reaction from your university friends’ to your boyfriend versus from people back home.

As his stardom went up, however, your relationship with him seemed to do the opposite. It was now normal to go a week without hearing from him at all. A rare day in hell it was when he answered your phone calls, and usually they were brief. He didn’t keep his promise of calling before every match. In fact, he didn’t keep his promise of calling at all, because he simply didn’t. You tried to be understanding, but only so many excuses could be made for him, as you were also incredibly busy.

When an opening appeared in his schedule that aligned with your own, it felt like an Olympic event to convince him to make the trip. Once he finally agreed, that was when you began to feel excited, yet also anxious about it. It was, in your mind, a last ditch effort to save the relationship.

It wasn’t until this moment, as you came back from your thoughts, that you noticed his suitcase was also gone.

Sprinting back to your bedroom, almost tripping on the sheet multiple times as it covered your naked body, you ripped your phone from the wall. The tears had started leaking out long before you had the chance to hit his name to phone him.

Straight to voicemail.

Hanging up, you dialed again. Same result. When you tried to send a text, the text bubble immediately turned green.

Blocked.

Anger swallowed you whole, your chest heaving. Without really thinking about it, you dialed him again. It went to voicemail for a third time, but you didn’t hang up.

It’s Jamie. Don’t bother. I don’t care.

“So that’s it then?” You said to his voicemail box, knowing damn well he’d never receive it. “Twenty three years of friendship, just down the fucking drain? Never mind four years of that being in a fucking relationship. You piece of shit. You absolute fucking piece of shit.”

You stared at the floor, feverishly shaking your head.

“I guess the word from home about how much you changed is true. Never wanted to believe it but… I’ve been thoroughly enlightened, thank you.”

You swiped a hand against your cheeks.

“Are the cheating rumours true then too? Might as fucking well be, right? Fuck you, Jamie. I really thought we could salvage this. When I saw you at the airport, I…” You were properly crying now, unable to hide the sobs from your voice. “All of those feelings came rushing back to me. I felt like I was nineteen again, and we were back home. Just two kids who loved each other. It felt that simple. Like all it took was seeing each other again to make things okay. Wrong again.”

You had run into his arms in picturesque movie fashion, and he had held you for a long time. Did he know then? Did he get off the plane knowing he was going to destroy you?

You straightened your back out and cleared your throat.

“Don’t worry. I don’t fucking need you. And you’ll never hear from me again. Fuck you, Jamie Tartt. Absolutely fuck you. I deserve so much better than this.”

Once the call ended, you threw your phone on the bed and allowed yourself to feel it all, the anger and melancholy washing over you like a wave crashing onto the coastline in a thunderstorm. Bum hitting the floor, you curled your knees to your chest and rested your forehead on them. Your entire body shook with tears, and it stayed that way for a solid hour before you stiffly stood and moved to your bed.

That was the last time you tried to get a hold of Jamie, though it was not the last time you thought of him.

And as life moved on, you never ended up seeing him again.

Until now.

TAGS

@oncasette, @shiptheship, @ajkdjdnkekemfxj, @breepboopbap, @sssatorus, @jelleeyfish, @puckyou-forpuckssake, @ricciardhoe3, @buckybarnex, @loveslide, @hopefulromances, @sokkigarden

#jamie tartt #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #tedlassosource #ted lasso fanfiction

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loneberry · 8 months

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September 11, 1973: On the 50th Anniversary of the Coup in Chile

Today marks the 50th anniversary of the coup d’état in Chile, when a fascist junta led by dictator Augusto Pinochet overthrew the democratically elected socialist government of Salvador Allende. For those of us who are on the left, the story should be familiar by now: Allende had charted a ‘Chilean way to socialism' ("La vía chilena al socialismo") quite distinct from the Soviet Union and communist China, a peaceful path to socialism that was fundamentally anti-authoritarian, combining worker power with respect for civil liberties, freedom of the press, and a principled commitment to democratic process. For leftists who had become disillusioned with the Soviet drift into authoritarianism, Chile was a bright spot on an otherwise gloomy Cold War map.

What happened in Chile was one of the darkest chapters in the history of US interventionism. In August 1970, Henry Kissinger, who was then Nixon’s national security adviser, commissioned a study on the consequences of a possible Allende victory in the upcoming Chilean presidential election. Kissinger, Nixon, and the CIA—all under the spell of Cold War derangement syndrome—determined the US should pursue a policy of blocking the ascent of Allende, lest a socialist Chile generate a “domino effect” in the region.

When Allende won the presidency, the US did everything in their power to destroy his government: they meddled in Chilean elections, leveraged their control of the international financial system to destroy the economy of Chile (which they also did through an economic boycott), and sowed social chaos through sponsoring terrorism and a shutdown of the transportation sector, bringing the country to the brink of civil war. Particularly infuriating to the Americans was Allende’s nationalization of the copper mining industry, which was around 70% of Chile’s economy at the time and was controlled by US mining companies like Anaconda, Kennecott and the Cerro Corporation. When the CIA’s campaign of sabotage failed to destroy the socialist experiment in Chile, they resorted to assisting general Augusto Pinochet's plot to overthrow the democratically elected government. What followed was a gruesome campaign of repression against workers, leftists, poets, activists, students, and ordinary Chileans—stadiums were turned into concentration camps where supporters of Allende’s Popular Unity government were tortured and murdered. During Pinochet’s 17-year reign of terror, 3,200 people were executed and 40,000 people were detained, tortured, or disappeared, 1,469 of whom remain unaccounted for. Chile was then used as a laboratory for neoliberal economic policies, where the Chicago boys and their ilk tested out their terrible ideas on a population forced to live under a military dictatorship.

It shatters my heart, thinking about this history. I feel a personal attachment to Chile, not only because my partner is Chilean (his father left during the dictatorship), but because I’ve always considered Chile to be a world capital of poetry and anti-authoritarian leftism. The filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky asks, “In how many countries does a real poetic atmosphere exist? Without a doubt, ancient China was a land of poetry. But I think, in the 1950s in Chile, we lived poetically like in no other country in the world.” (Poetry left China long ago — oh how I wish I’d been around to witness the poetic flowering of the Tang era!) Chile has one of the greatest literary traditions of the twentieth century, producing such giants as Bolaño and Neruda, and more recently, Cecilia Vicuña and Raúl Zurita, among others.

To commemorate the 50th anniversary of the coup, the Harvard Film Archive has been screening Patricio Guzmán’s magisterial trilogy, The Battle of Chile, along with a program of Chilean cinema. I watched part I and II the last two nights and will watch part III tonight. It’s no secret that I am a huge fan of Guzmán’s work, and even quoted his beautiful film Nostalgia for the Light in the conclusion of my book Carceral Capitalism, when I wrote about the Chilean political prisoners who studied astronomy while incarcerated in the Atacama Desert. Bless Patricio Guzmán. This man has devoted his life and filmmaking career to the excavation of the Chilean soul.

Parts I and II utterly destroyed me. I left the theater last night shaken to my core, my face covered in tears.

The films are all the more remarkable when you consider it was made by a scrappy team of six people using film stock provided by the great documentarian Chris Marker. After the coup, four of the filmmakers were arrested. The footage was smuggled out of Chile and the exiled filmmakers completed the films in Cuba. Sadly, in 1974, the Pinochet regime disappeared cameraman Jorge Müller Silva, who is assumed dead.

It’s one thing to know the macro-story of what happened in Chile and quite another to see the view from the ground: the footage of the upswell of support for radical transformation, the marches, the street battles, the internal debates on the left about how to stop the fascist creep, the descent into chaos, the face of the military officer as he aims his pistol at the Argentine cameraman Leonard Hendrickson during the failed putsch of June 1973 (an ominous prelude to the September coup), the audio recordings of Allende on the morning of September 11, the bombing of Palacio de La Moneda—the military is closing in. Allende is dead. The crumbling edifice of the presidential palace becomes the rubble of revolutionary dreams—the bombs, a dirge for what was never even given a chance to live.

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averseunhinged · 1 month

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thanks to @garglyswoof, @purplesigebert, and @galvanizedfriend for tagging me! the game is first ten songs with my most played/on repeat on shuffle.

i feel like i should say something about at least one of them. so, if you're into folk noir/dark americana, the new son of the velvet rat album, ghost ranch, is very good.

(eta vague descriptions for everything, because i forget people might actually want to read my long rambles.)

vera sola - the colony (i usually describe her as nancy sinatra if she studied poetry at harvard. this song is from her older, more bizarre album. i like it as much the new one, but it might be slightly less accessible than the newer one. it's still weird, but it has more of that classic nashville sound.)

queens of the stone age - made to parade (i didn't get around to this album until recently and was surprised by how much i loved it. i'm a fan of qotsa, but lost track of them a little. mark lanegan's death made me revisit them more and they still have it. they are old and josh homme is a kind of a wreck physically, but the album is still stoner rock's more punishing cousin, and they still go hard live.)

caroline polachek - ocean of tears (not one of polachek's most popular tracks, but it's my favorite. it's so pretty and catchy and well written. art pop at its best.)

son of the velvet rat - bewildering black & white moments captured on trail cams (see above. also jolie holland's on a handful of songs on the album and she's always good.)

.grouptherapy - ...i changed my mind (a new song off the deluxe version of their 2023 album, which was one of my favorite albums of last year. they're young and talented and trying a lot of things out. it's been fun following their releases and hearing the big and little ways they alter things as the develop.)

vera sola - bad idea (obsessed. i am obsessed with this song and this album and this entire artist.)

emma ruth rundle - darkhorse (my user name is actually from this song. she's my forever favorite. she's one of the progenitors of doom folk, which is basically the denver sound when it's not at home, and sounds like emmy lou harris if she was really into metal.)

skryptonite - Притон (my favorite song by my favorite russian language rapper-producer. he's fucking huge in the cis, but not at all in north america. it's always so wild watching these huge, packed stadium, unhinged shows by performers who might book a small club in the states. the world is both very small and very big.)

shovels & rope - gotta get out of here (shovels & rope do the best covers. this one isn't super far off from the original, but it has a more sinister vibe than kevin kinney's plaintive recording.)

nick cave & the bad seeds - wild god (new bad seeds single! as typically good as nick cave usually is. i think his voice is sounding older and rougher these days, but that never detracts for me. the way singers' voices change as they age is fascinating. there's something so compelling about an artist's later in life albums, when their voice carries the weight of their age.)

because of ingrained weirdness about tagging people, this is a free for all. if you see this, i'm tagging you.

#tumblr games #music

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adamsvanrhijn · 2 months

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blorbo question: blorbo and his boyfriend in a modern day american college situation. are they football fans or basketball fans? either? does John play one of those sports?

thank you for not making me sad!!!

reminder for people who don't live here that in this case the football looks like this

🏈🏈🏈

in one of the aus in my brain where they are in high school in the 50s ("this was not the question" shhh) john plays high school football, because it's the 50s. but the thing about established modern football is all the brain damage. which i don't like for him. i do not as yet have an au in my brain where he plays football in a modern au at any level college included. the only universe in my brain where john plays college football is at least a few of my many alternate canonical timelines... 1860s-1870s harvard football...!!

for whatever reason john is not screaming basketball at me. i feel like i don't associate john with jumping. actually that's a stupid thing to say because i have him as a baseball player plenty and that jumping works in my brain...

i do not think oscar enjoys Participating in either of these sports because he simply is at a physiological disadvantage.... the secret to not losing at sports is to only do sports you know you can win 😌💅 but in no universe i already have in my brain is oscar like an actual college athlete.

i DO however think teen young adult oscar thinks he can also win at football by being in a sexual relationship with a football player and i do think he could also apply this logic to basketball but basketball is like. less idealized. nobody* is writing songs and screenplays where you win by dating the basketball player you know?? the basketball player is not an aspirational trope. it is less impressive to turn a basketball player gay** than it is a football player.

* somebody almost certainly is.

** make him realize he actually has been so in love with you specifically all this time and was only making fun of you in front of his friends because he wants you soooo bad

i think john has had similar fantasies in his life but it's more like, the guy is already his friend and maybe he has realized through having a girlfriend that actually he does wish he still had time to spend with john, since he isn't doing that much anymore because now he has a girlfriend, and maybe even he actually prefers john to his girlfriend and just isn't ready to say it yet .............

ummmmm. in terms of like. being in College. and not in high school. and watching College sports. i don't think oscar has the patience for football for football's sake like there needs to be something else going on for this viewing experience to be fun... this is a Party thing... but he pays attention to who is winning and losing both during the game and during the season perhaps. whereas i think the act of Watching football is probably actually something cerebral enough for john to enjoy but he hates the vibes.... his ideal football watching experience is at home not being perceived maybe with like two other people he enjoys spending time with already and you don't have to deal with tailgate and/or stadium logistics.... and he is less concerned in terms of like a bigger picture state of American college football with who is winning or losing but gets invested in the individual game while he is watching it and wants his team to win. thinks about how team members must feel emotionally if they lose when the game really matters and feels sad for them. gets really upset about injuries. probably is worried about the brain damage which Oscar like. simply doesn't care about they're already playing football in the first place........ come on 🙄

i feel like John would try to support his college's women's basketball to be a good feminist ally. he could totally have a sister basketball player. Oscar unlikely to care about this / care about being perceived as caring about this but would maybe go in a group and in the right circumstances talk like he does. or he might not.

basketball is Not a big thing in my state to be honest so i am less familiar with the college politics but football i just cannot get away from so i am much more aware of what that is like.... very interested in basketball blorbo opinions if anyone has those for some reason.

#thank you!! 🥰🥰🥰#johnoscar tag #oscar van rhijn tag #john adams tag

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haggishlyhagging · 6 months

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Radical feminism rejected both the politico position that socialist revolution would bring about women's liberation and the liberal feminist solution of integrating women into the public sphere. Radical feminists argued that women constituted a sex-class, that relations between women and men needed to be recast in political terms, and that gender rather than class was the primary contradiction. They criticized liberal feminists for pursuing "formal equality within a racist, class-stratified system," and for refusing to acknowledge that women's inequality in the public domain was related to their subordination in the family. Radical feminists articulated the earliest and most provocative critiques of the family, marriage, love, normative heterosexuality, and rape. They fought for safe, effective, accessible contraception; the repeal of all abortion laws; the creation of high-quality, community-controlled child-care centers; and an end to the media's objectification of women. They also developed consciousness-raising—the movement's most effective organizing tool. And in defying the cultural injunction against female self-assertion and subjectivity, radical feminists "dared to be bad." By 1970, there was such enormous interest in radical feminism that some have even argued it was on the verge of becoming a mass movement.

Radical feminists succeeded in pushing liberal feminists to the left and politicos toward feminism. By September 1969 Betty Friedan, founder of the liberal National Organization for Women (NOW), declared that "those people who think NOW is too activist may be less important in the future than the youth." While she criticized the younger women for failing to see that "the gut issues of this revolution involve employment and education and new social institutions and not sexual fantasy," she nonetheless urged NOW to "form a power bloc or alliance" with women's liberation groups "whose style, origins, structure and general ambience may be quite different from ours." NOW did move in this direction. On August 26, 1970, NOW joined with women's liberation groups to stage a national women's strike, the Women's Strike for Equality, and demanded twenty-four-hour child-care centers, abortion on demand, and equal employment and educational opportunities for women.

Similarly, many socialist-feminists, who in their earlier incarnation as "politicos" had repudiated radical feminism, began incorporating elements of radical feminism into their analysis. For instance, in May 1970, in the wake of the American invasion of Cambodia, a ten-woman delegation from Bread and Roses, a Boston-based "socialist women's liberation organization," delivered a speech at a National Student Strike rally at Harvard Stadium. Although the women from Bread and Roses did not entirely jettison the politico analysis, they did speak of male dominance as "the original and basic form of domination from which all others flow," and they did identify themselves as part of an "independent women's movement to destroy male supremacy."

But by the early '70s radical feminism began to flounder, and after 1975 it was eclipsed by cultural feminism—a tendency that grew out of radical feminism, but contravened much that was fundamental to it. With the rise of cultural feminism the movement turned its attention away from opposing male supremacy to creating a female counterculture—what Mary Daly termed "new space"—where "male" values would be exorcized and "female values nurtured." Although this woman-only space was envisioned as a kind of culture of active resistance, it often became instead, as Adrienne Rich has recently pointed out, "a place of emigration, an end in itself" where patriarchy was evaded rather than engaged. Concomitantly, the focus became one of personal rather than social transformation. Feminist activist and writer Meredith Tax recalls that as early as 1971 some feminists seemed to be defining their politics completely in terms of their lifestyle. Tax remembers women boasting, "we worked on our car all weekend," as though it were an act of great political significance. She “worried about what else was going to happen. This wasn't going to be the whole thing, was it?” But as the '70s wore on this was, if not the whole thing, then a large part of it. And by 1975 radical feminism virtually ceased to exist as a movement. Once radical feminism was superseded by cultural feminism, activism became largely the province of liberal feminists. According to Washington, D.C. women's liberationist Frances Chapman, radical feminism was "like a generator that got things going, cut out and left it to the larger reform engine which made a lot of mistakes."

-Alice Echols, Daring to Be Bad: Radical Feminism in America: 1967-75

#Alice echols #radical feminist history #womens history #womens liberation #cultural feminism

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widenerlibrary · 1 year

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Julian Abele was a Black architect who, while working for the Horace Trumbauer firm in Philadelphia, was one the designers of Widener Library. Abele was the first Black student in the University of Pennsylvania Department of Architecture. In addition to his work on Widener he also helped design the Philadelphia Museum of Art as well as several buildings on the Duke campus, including the Duke University Chapel and Cameron Indoor Stadium. He’s generally considered the most important Black architect of his era. There aren’t many surviving photos of Abele but we did find these in 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐞: 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐱 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐬 (New York, 2019) #julianabele #architecture #architects #blackhistorymonth #library #books #bookstagram #booksofinstagram #librarybooks #librarybook (at Harvard Yard) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoahFxMurSl/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#julianabele #architecture #architects #blackhistorymonth #library #books #bookstagram #booksofinstagram #librarybooks #librarybook

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siempre-bucky · 1 year

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Cowboys vs. Seahawks

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Javy 'Coyote' Machado | NFL!AU

Summary: The Cowboys had it out for the Seahawks since the last time they played. A bad injury leads to a love confession between two best friends.

wc: 1975

A/N: ayeeee look at me writing for ships! My sister took me to a football game and I was telling the unimind about doing a football au... and I knew i had to do my favorite best friends to lovers. A lil snippet for something bigger? idk.

The locker room was electrified as Jake approached the door, the quiet stadium now in the distance. Mickey’s excited voice vibrated along the blue and silver walls. Jake raised his eyebrows and pushed open the door, his teammates bouncing around as they got dressed for the anticipated game.

"Hey, Mav!" Reuben perked up as he laced his cleats. The coach looked up from his clipboard, unimpressed by their childlike taunts towards the Seahawks.

Jake couldn't care less about what they were discussing, his thoughts still in bed hungover with his friend tucked into his side. He shoved his duffle back into his corner, the plays going on in his mind were being invaded by thoughts of his best friend. Instead of running into the in zone, Jake thought about crashing into the crisp sheets of Javy's hotel room.

"How much do you think we'll get in fines for a sprained ankle?" Mickey joked.

Maverick let out a chuckle, shaking his head at the rookie. "None of that. Just a fair game."

The blond heard the whispers from a couple of his teammates, Harvard and Yale who sat in the corner. He stilled, his eyes glancing at his nameplate but his ears were listening. They hated the Seahawks the most after their last matchup. The foul play from the two teams had ESPN buzzing for weeks and the endless finger pointing and Twitter feuds had both teams up in arms. It was at least good for ticket sales. Jake caught something about an ejection, an ambulance, and something about putting a player out for the remainder of the season.

He needed to warn Javy.

His hand darted for his bag, hastily rummaging through its contents. He needed to clear it off the clutter, he grimaced at the ungodly amount of Cowboys towels he had. Jake finally grabbed a hold of his phone, his thumb typing in his passcode. Warlock spoke up, his deep voice stopping him in his tracks. "Seresin. The cameras are on. Let's go," he spoke evenly.

Jake let his phone fall back into his bag. He could only pray Javy was smart enough to see what some of his team was willing to do to them. The guy had always been smart. Back in college, Javy didn’t hesitate to approach his former teammate, telling him things he had been hearing about the opposing team and how to counter them, Javy watched—stalked then reported back to his ‘pack’ as he called them. Perhaps he was also smart, knowing how Jake’s heart was beating out of his chest every time they were in the same city, how his breath hitched when they spoke on the phone, and oh how he wished Javy could see the blush that covered his cheeks when they did a video chat.

Things changed when Jake stepped onto the field, fans chanted his name, and roaring loud music blasted in his home stadium. He had to focus on the game, they had to make it to the playoffs, so he left all thoughts of Javy in the back of his mind.

The Cowboys were down by 7, the Seahawks making their field goal look effortless. Jake huffed and angrily took off his helmet as he walked off the field to let his opponent celebrate. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered bitterly, one of the coaches coming up beside him with his laminated paper covering his lips. His offense tapped him on the shoulder, telling him kind words of reassurance while they passed him on the way to the field.

“It’s only the third quarter, Seresin,” Hondo chuckled, “We’ve got the ball now, just relax.”

Jake let the older man calm him down, even managing to wave to the fans in the crowd and giving them a signature Seresin smile. Hondo stood in front of him, his sheet in between the two to show him a play. The cheering was normal, loud and overbearing which made Jake lean in so he could hear what his coach was telling him. The game went on behind him—he had to focus on the win.

“Medic! Medic!” They started to chant. A few voices became a whole section and the section turned into a whole side of the stadium followed by sympathetic claps. Jake’s green eyes glanced upward at the concerned looks in the crowd. Something wasn’t right. His eyes fell on Hondo, whose own eyes were locked on the field.

“Fuck,” fell from his lips.

Jake’s heart began to race, his ears suddenly began to ring. He prayed to a God he rarely spoke to anymore as he turned around. The two teams were mixed in the middle of the field, the medics rushing to get to the down player. “No, no, no, please,” he whispered. He looked downward, cleat clad feet moving around just enough to see the player with his Seahawks helmet a few feet from his head and cracked from the impact. It was him, identified by the jawline he drunkenly got to know the night before

Jake’s heart dropped to his churning stomach, seeing his world lying on the floor lifeless. His whole world had come to an abrupt halt.

“Injured player from Seattle. Number twenty-five, Javier Machado.”

Jake ditched his helmet, ignoring the pleas from his team as he ran as fast as he could to Javy’s side. “Javy!” he shouted brokenly as he approached. The medic looked up, his gloved hand halting the player before Jake could drop to his knees.

“Sir we need space,” he tried to tell Jake calmly, easily recognizing the worried look on his face.

“Is he ok? Tell me he’s alright!” he screamed. His eyes were still locked on his friend, a line of crimson blood flowing from his right nostril. Another one of the medics was trying to feel for a pulse. A life with Javy flashed before the blond’s eyes; a couple of Super Bowl rings, a place in the French Quarter, and maybe a kid and a dog. This didn't look like his Javy. Brush it off like you always do, get up, please get up, but he continued to lay there unresponsive.

“We won’t know if we don’t get some room. We have a pulse now let us do our job!” The man with his fingers to the darker skinned man's throat yelled out.

A comforting hand pulled him back, Javy’s teammate Bradley gently telling him that he’ll be alright. Jake shrugged him off and focused his attention on the smug Cowboys linebacker. “Harvard!” Jake seethed, marching over and shoving his shoulder, “This is your fucking fault!”

“What the fuck, Jake?” Harvard gasped, cocking his head to the side.

“I heard you.” Jake jabbed his finger into the NFL logo on the center of his chest. “I fucking heard you. Now Javy—”

It clicked in Harvard's head, “Your boyfriend’s fine, Seresin,” he spoke quietly, not trying to mask the laugh in his tone.

“Did you see his helmet?”

Brigham rolled his eyes, “He’s fine.”

Jake shoved him one last time, sending the man to the ground. “Look again. If he doesn’t come back from this, his blood’s on your hands.”

He got up and shoved Jake gruffly, balling his fist and rearing it back. It was a lucky shot, said fist colliding with Jake’s perfect nose. Jake wiped his nose and flung the drops on Brigham’s clean uniform. He was about to lunge forward when a ref got in between them. “Sit down!” he commanded. Jake tried to take another step. “Knock it off right fucking now or I’ll make sure the two of you are ejected.”

Jake and Brigham broke it up, Rooster coming up to tell Jake to follow the two medics carrying Javy on a stretcher to get his nose checked.

He’d follow Javy to the ends of the earth, and after a couple of hasty texts and short replies from his coaches, Jake followed Javy to the hospital. He impatiently waited for several hours with a butterfly bandage over the bridge of his nose and a bloody tissue resting on his jean-clad thigh. He sat silently, trying to hear what the doctor and the head coach of the Seahawks, Beau Simpson, were discussing. “Let him be ok, I need him. He’s all I have,” Jake murmured to himself, the threat of tears only making his nose hurt worse. “He’s all I want.”

Jake slumped further into his uncomfortable chair. Regret flashed in his mind, not telling Javy he loved him when Jake had him right there. He wished he would’ve said something the night of the draft a couple years ago when he first realized he was in love with his best friend.

“Kid? You’re still here?” Beau asked gently, a clear look of confusion on his face as he stepped out of the hospital room. Jake lurched forward and rose to full height, his hands beginning to shake.

“Is he ok?” he asked instead, ignoring his question.

The man let out a soft chuckle and finally, he nodded, “Bad concussion. He’ll be out for a few weeks, but he’s expected to be ok.”

Jake could finally breathe, his lungs had never felt more relieved. “Oh thank God,” he exhaled sharply, trying to nonchalantly wipe the tears that pooled in his eyes. Beau stepped forward and put his hand on the blond’s shoulder.

“You both played for Texas, is that right?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Well it’s no wonder Mav called you the bonded pair,” he said amused. “Go to him, he’ll be happy to see you.”

The coach left after another reassuring squeeze to his shoulder and Jake timidly walked into the room. Javy was lying in bed, an IV hooked up to his arm and his head resting delicately on the mildly comfortable pillow. “Hey,” Javy spoke smoothly, his crooked smile enough to make the other man swoon.

“H-Hey,” Jake replied, natural charm locked away.

Javy took in a deep breath and smiled softly at his friend, “I’m fine, Jake. I’m good.”

The man finally broke down at the confirmation, his lower lip trembling as all the pent up tears cascaded down his cheeks. Javy slowly sat up and reached for him, hand gripping the back of Jake’s neck and pulling him close.

“I was so worried,” he sobbed. “I knew they were gonna pull something but I didn’t think it’d be you.”

Javy chuckled, “Don’t cry for me, Jake. A tackle can’t take me out.”

Jake pulled back suddenly, Javy’s lips parting his surprise. The blond stood back and looked down at him in disbelief, “That hit was bad. Brain damage, Javy! Did you see that goddamn helmet?”

There was a pause as Jake paced the cold floor. Javy cleared his throat, “Why are you so upset?” he asked calmly.

The other man looked at him like he was crazy. “I could have lost you,” he scoffed. “The only person I care about in the world, taken out by some vengeful airheads. Javy I-”

“You what?” Javy spoke instantly, his voice calm yet firm. He hoped this was going where he thought.

“You’re my best friend—and I-I- I love you. It’s always been you.”

Javy broke out into a wide smile, “Since the first day we practiced together? Back in school?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “from the very first day, Javs.”

Javy shifted in his seat and motioned for Jake to come back to his side. He took the paler man’s hand in his, brown eyes meeting emerald green. “I’m in love with you,” he admitted, a year's worth of weight lifted off his chest. His hand slid upward to wrap around the back of his beck, pulling him down for a tender kiss. When they pulled away blissfully, he spoke again, “So very much in love with you. Even if you play for the Cowboys.”

#jake seresin #javy machado #jake seresin x javy machado #hangman x coyote #macheresin #top gun #top gun maverick

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msclaritea · 2 years

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The British Empire Was Much Worse Than You Realize | The New Yorker

March 28, 2022

A red lion from the British royal coat of arms holding a globe.

Liberal imperialism, Caroline Elkins argues, gained resilience from its ability to absorb and neutralize objections. Illustration by Ben Jones

"At the height of the British Empire, just after the First World War, an island smaller than Kansas controlled roughly a quarter of the world’s population and landmass. To the architects of this colossus, the largest empire in history, each conquest was a moral achievement. Imperial tutelage, often imparted through the barrel of an Enfield, was delivering benighted peoples from the errors of their ways—child marriage, widow immolation, headhunting. Among the edifiers was a Devonshire-born rector’s son named Henry Hugh Tudor. Hughie, as he was known to Winston Churchill and his other chums, pops up so reliably in colonial outposts with outsized body counts that his story can seem a “Where’s Waldo?” of empire.

He’s Churchill’s garrison-mate in Bangalore in 1895—a time of “messes and barbarism,” the future Prime Minister complained in a note to his mum. As the century turns, Tudor is battling Boers on the veldt; then it’s back to India, and on to occupied Egypt. Following a decorated stint as a smoke-screen artist in the trenches of the First World War, he’s in command of a gendarmerie, nicknamed Tudor’s Toughs, that opens fire in a Dublin stadium in 1920—an assault during a search for I.R.A. assassins which leaves dozens of civilians dead or wounded. Prime Minister David Lloyd George delights in rumors that Tudor’s Toughs were killing two Sinn Féinners for every murdered loyalist. Later, even the military’s chief of staff marvelled at how nonchalantly the men spoke of those killings, tallying them up as though they were runs in a cricket match; Tudor and his “scallywags” were out of control. It didn’t matter: Churchill, soon to be Secretary of State for the Colonies, had Tudor’s back.

Imperial subjects, of course, sometimes found their own solutions to such problems. A hard-line British field marshal, atop the I.R.A. hit list, was gunned down in Belgravia in 1922. Tudor, worried he would be next, made himself scarce. By the following year, he and his Irish paramilitaries were propagating their tactics for suppressing natives in the British-controlled Mandate of Palestine, Churchill having decided that the violence-prone Tudor was just the fellow to train the colonial police. A letter from Tudor to Churchill that I recently came across crystallizes all the insouciance, cynicism, greed, callousness, and errant judgment of empire. He opens by telling Churchill that he’s just commanded his troops to slaughter Adwan Bedouins who had been marching on Amman to protest high taxes levied on them by their notoriously extravagant emir. This tribe was “invariably friendly to Great Britain,” Tudor writes, a touch ruefully. But, he adds, “politics are not my affair.”

Tudor had cheery news to impart, too. Not only could the Mandate be a “wonderful tourist country,” but prospectors had discovered vast sums’ worth of potash in the Dead Sea valley. Should Britain appropriate the resources and increase the policing budget, its difficulties in the region would “smooth out,” he told Churchill, assuring him that Palestinians would be easier to pacify than the Irish: “They are a different people, and it’s unlikely that the Arab if handled firmly will ever do much more than agitate and talk.”

In the twentieth century’s hierarchy of state-sponsored violence, Hitler’s Germany, Stalin’s Russia, and Hirohito’s Japan typically take top spots. The actions of a few European empires have invited harsh scrutiny, too—Belgium’s conduct in Congo, France’s in Algeria, and Portugal’s in Angola and Mozambique. Britain is rarely seen as among the worst offenders, given a reputation for decency that the Harvard historian Caroline Elkins has spent more than two decades trying to undermine. “Legacy of Violence” (Knopf), her astringent new history of the British Empire, brings detailed context to individual stories like Tudor’s. Visiting archives in a dozen countries over four continents, examining hundreds of oral histories, and drawing on the work of social historians and political theorists, Elkins traces the Empire’s arc across centuries and theatres of crisis. As the sole imperial power that remained a liberal democracy throughout the twentieth century, Britain claimed to be distinct from Europe’s colonial powers in its commitment to bringing rule of law, enlightened principles, and social progress to its colonies. Elkins contends that Britain’s use of systematic violence was no better than that of its rivals. The British were simply more skilled at hiding it."

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bookns · 5 months

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what the fuck do you mean Can I Be Him is coming out a day early. This is for you @ethereal-maia you are amazing as a friend and as an editor.

“Let's just go once more, Annabeth.” A voice from the sound booth echoed in the stadium. Her long time friend and her sound system operator, Will Solace's voice rang through the sound speakers.

Eyeing him from the stage, Annabeth nodded and adjusted the volume of her headset to her latest song Out Of The Wood. Hearing the queue of the backtrack playing in the echoes of the stadium, the memory of her and her producer, Clarisse La Rue creating it, made her smile as she started to sing.

Although this was just a rehearsal for the show that she was going to perform tonight, Annabeth sang as if she was already performing for the thousands that would arrive. The ending of the song surpassed all too soon for Annabeth as she was too caught up in her performance and the music to notice.

“Well done, Annabeth.” Will exclaimed through the speakers.

“Well done, indeed,” said a voice beyond the stage's eye.

Annabeth’s eyes scanned the grounds, searching for the voice. Percy Jackson came into view, clapping as he did so.

Annabeth grinned when she saw him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to get a taste of the stage, and was welcomed by a voice that was serenading me.”

“Very funny. The show isn’t until tonight. We were just finishing rehearsals for my part. You and the rest of the band have rehearsals later tonight.”

“Perfect timing on my end, then. Are you ready for a break?”

“I am,” she said, “Just let me finish up with the sound check, then we can leave.”

.o0o.

Sound check, to Percy, was a funny thing. It wasn't always needed. Before the band joined Annabeth, back when they were on their tour, they used to only soundcheck once a city.

However within the past few weeks of getting to know her, he realized that Annabeth is a perfectionist. Whenever he, or anyone else in the band is looking for her, her manager Silena would lead them to the recording booth. She would always be writing a new song, or adding some hidden detail to an already produced song to surprise that night of fans.

He knew that Annabeth was born for the stage. Anyone with ears would be able to tell you that but being alongside her, working with her and the rest of the band has been the best experience Percy has had.

She knew what she was doing, and it was evident with the packed bleachers and the screaming fans that listened to them play each night.

.o0o.

“You ready?” Percy called as he knocked on her dressing room door.

The door swung open and Annabeth stood there, a smile growing on her face.

Last he saw of her before she had disappeared into the outskirts of the stage, she was still wearing her costume that would be for the show that night. It was bright blue, extremely sparkly, and impossible to miss. Now she was dressed more casually with a pair of jeans and a white sweatshirt with the words ‘Harvard 1989’ printed on it.

“Yeah let’s go,” she replied.

Percy smiled and they guided each other out of the stadium.

Once they got outside, the raging autumn air felt chilly against his cheeks.

“Oh god, I do not remember Philadelphia being this cold.”

Percy chuckles at her weak attempt of warming her hands.

“You’re from California, right? I guess that they don’t get winter like we do here.”

Annabeth smiled.

“Well, I’m originally from Virgina but I moved to California when I was younger.”

He whistled.

“That had to be a big change.”

Annabeth nodded.

“I don’t really remember it that much. I was only seven when we moved to California, so it wasn’t like I was all that in touch with my southern roots. I wasn’t even that in touch with my Califronian self despite looking like a California surfer girl. I moved away to New York when I was 16.”

“Sixteen,” Percy gaped at her, “That’s just a kid.”

“I know, but it was needed. I was stuck at a house that wasn’t going to support my career,’”

Percy stared at Annabeth shockingly.

“Damn, I always knew I got lucky with my mom always supporting me, but I never knew that you had to go through that.”

“My dad’s a History professor at Harvard. He doesn't care about music”

“But you do?”

His question wasn’t accusing like she thought it would be. Most people would immediately judge her for her ‘impossible’ dream, but Percy didn’t. Then again, Annabeth realized Percy wasn't like most people. He understood her drive for making people listen to her music. After all, he was in the same industry.

Annabeth knew that Percy would understand her need for sharing her music.

“Music is permanent. People have always loved music, whether it be a folktale from the thirteenth century to Mozart or hell, current day pop. It creates stories and allows truth to be told.”

Percy nodded along.

“I get that. I got into music to tell my own story, the story of the lost kid that listened to music on his single mom’s radio while she took care of me all on her own. It helped me calm down, and got me to stop getting into trouble. Writing lyrics gave me a vision. I never thought I could do this as a career,but I’m so glad it did happen. Meeting Beckendorf, Thalia, and Grover changed my life. I wouldn’t have made it through middle school, much less anything else without them.

She smiled.

“Meeting Thalia changed my life too, so I understand it. Thalia always had a thing for finding the troubled. She is the one who took care of me when I ran away from home, you know?”

‘You ran away? I thought that was just some sort of metaphor that is in your music.”

She nodded.

“I wish. When I was 16, my dad didn’t take music seriously. He didn't think I could make it as a career. So I ran away. I hung out on Thalia’s couch for months, writing and practicing.”

“How did you even know who Thalia was? She never mentioned that she knew you.’

“Thalia was my babysitter when I was younger on top of taking care of me when I was 16.”

“Thalia babysat?” His shock made Annabeth realize that, despite being in a band with her, maybe Percy didn’t know Thalia at all.

“She did for years. She used to watch me for days on end when my dad was too busy studying for his exams to notice me. Most of my childhood was at Thalia's house and the sundaes she used to feed me for breakfast.

“That sounds like Thalia. She never really did give a damn about the rules. Growing up, she was the reason me, Beck, and Grover got in trouble so much.”

Annabeth giggled.

“I would like to say I don’t see it from you,” but she eyed him up and down, “trouble is all I see.”

He chuckled.

“Seems like you aren’t an angel yourself, Miss Chase.”

“I’m plenty angel. Ask anyone? Hell, ask Silena”

“Speaking of Silena, how did you two meet?”

“Me and Lena met when I just started in the industry. My first album had just come out, and I was in desperate need of a manager.”

Annabeth snorted.

“It was actually my ex-boyfriend who introduced us.”

Percy raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

Annabeth sighed.

“His name was Luke Castellan. Silena used to manage him before she became full time for me.

“Wasn’t that a little weird? At least for you, I mean, when you and Luke stopped going out?”

She scrunched her nose.

“Not really. By then, me and Silena had finalized the papers for her to work for me, and he was so toxic. He’s actually the one who I wrote my songs "Would've, Could’ve, Should’ve and White Horse about.”

Percy sighed in relief.

“At least it worked out for the best. You get to create songs over awful guys, and Silena gets a job out of it.”

“It’s been only a few years of Silena working with me. She’s still new to the managing world, and we’re learning together, I guess.”

“Well it seems she might have a new band to manage if her and Beck continue forward”

Annabeth laughed.

“Why do you call him that? Beckendorf? I know it’s his last name, but it’s odd. I thought only sports players only called their friends by their last name.”

“Well, a long time ago, when we were kids, Grover, Beck and I all went to the same summer camp, and we used to have homemade jerseys that my mom would sew up for us. One day I just started calling him Beckendorf, and it just stuck.”

“That was sweet of your mom.”

Percy smiled.

“My mom was always doing stuff like that during my childhood. It was just me and her growing up, and we didn’t have much money. She would always figure out how to sew jerseys for us, or bake blue cookies each time I would come from camp.”

“Blue cookies?”

Annabeth’s puzzlement made Percy laugh even harder, making the cold air flush against Annabeth’s skin .

“I lied about saying that it was just me and my mom. I had a step dad, but he was more of a monster than man. He didn't believe in blue food, so she used to dye everything blue. I’m surprised that my teeth aren’t permanently indigo. It was like our little act of rebellion against him.”

Sympathetically, Annabeth said, “Step parents are rough. Believe me, I know.”

She stopped to look at him as the red of the stop light glowed in the night.

“Gabe was one for the dramatics. Always begging for money for his poker games, and other addictions. Was yours like that?”

“My stepmom was never a horrible person to anyone else. She treated me like I was, though. They got married when I was seven like i said, and ever since then, I was treated like i don't belong in that house. I was on my own, for at least it felt like it, the rest of my life.”

“My mom saved me,” Percy says, “I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to grow up in a house where you felt so alone.”

Annabeth grew quiet as they stopped at a corner, the harsh lights of a diner in their rearview being the only thing that allowed Percy to see her gentle shivers in the cold.

“It got better as I got older. I met Thalia, started creating music, and suddenly they didn't matter. I created my own family. What’s the word?”

“A found family?”

“That’s it.”

“How does one become a part of this found family?”

“I won’t kiss and tell.”

“You have to kiss me to tell me, is what I’m hearing,” Percy said slyly.

“If that’s what you want?”

Annabeth leaned up on her tip-toes as Percy wrapped one of his arms around her waist.

His lips nearly touched hers, he could almost taste her lips on his.

Using what was left of her height, Annabeth met his lips with an urgent reverence.

Within the safety of his arms now fully wrapped around her, Annnabeth explored his mouth.

He bit down on her lip causing her to gasp, and groan.

She broke away from the kiss, her hands still on his chest, heaving as she began to process what had just occurred.

Days of writing about a first kiss that leaves her breathless, Annabeth realizes that this green-eyed boy had a lot more than she realized.

“Percy, do that again.”

Hoarsely, Percy chuckled and Annabeth felt it in her core.

“I will do whatever you want, Beth.”

Can I Be Him is my Annabeth Chase and Percy Jackson as Taylor Swift and 5 Seconds of Summer - 2nd chapter out now.

#lolatalkscanibehim #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #taylorswift #taylor swift #annabeth chase #percy and annabeth

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dandthegods · 1 year

Text

Working Class Gods

So I am fully aware that this will be so soaked through with bias and based on personal anecdotal “evidence” that it will start dripping down and staining the carpet. If you choose to engage with this, please remember that these are opinions, UPG, and completely pulled from my ass.

This isn’t meant to be a “hot take”, merely an observation. I think the Gods (of any pagan belief but I’m talking about the Hellenic deities here) are more connected to and more present in the lives of working class and “middle class” people and have always been that way. Let me explain.

This may just be my bias as someone who has only ever known a working class life, who doesn’t get caught up in the intensity of ritual and research, and has read American Gods about twenty times at this point, but I think the Gods as I know and see them are and always have been of the working classes of society. However you want to define that. I believe the Gods have a deeper and more organic relationship with pagans who identify and live lives at those sort of levels. I am not saying that those who would be considered “upper class” or those who could be categorized as “the 1%” in any given society can’t experience and connect with the Gods. I cant and won’t ever say that. Just the more it turns in my head and stews, the more I believe what I’ve said.

The Gods are everywhere. They can be found literally anywhere if you look for them. They aren’t limited to the things humans create or the ways we’ve categorized ourselves and them. Aphrodite can just as easily be worshipped by a millionaire Instagram influencer as a teenager who works at Sephora as a job to help her parents pay the rent. Athena can be found walking the aisles of Harvard or Oxford just as much as being among the shelves of a small town bookmobile that is the closest that town has to a library for 100 miles. Dionysus can be found at the biggest and more glamorous galas and events just as well as being able to sit on the couch with a gay teen in Alabama who isn’t out to anyone but their best friend. Apollo can be on the stages of a sold out stadium show just as much as being in the furthest, cheapest back row seat. I could give examples for every Olympian and Titan with a name, but I’ll just leave it there.

The stories we have are known to have originated as oral traditions. Oral stories told to people until someone wrote them down, and even then they still were told as bedtime stories or around a campfire. It was the populous, the working class, that told those stories most of the time. Sure, an emperor or a queen might tell their children stories sometimes, but a majority of what we have came from the continuous belief and propagation of stories by the farmers, smiths, fishermen and artists. And I think that’s the same as now. Anyone can become enthralled with the stories and mythologies retold, some across a book of retelling in any library. But I think it’s the kids who aren’t in the upper echelons of private school and trust funds are more prone to that discovery and for that to stick with them in a meaningful way.

I’m lucky that my gods aren’t used by people in positions of power to control society. I’m lucky that my religion isn’t the dominant one and my gods names are being taken in vain to control others. I can’t speak for how the world was in the past when that WAS more likely the case, but for today I can say that I’m glad it isn’t.

One thing that has always stuck with me about my favorite book, American Gods by Neil Gaiman is how the old gods are on the level of working class people. It has stuck with me into my own fiction writing as well as my beliefs. I do believe that if the Gods were to take physical form and function in today’s society (maybe they do, who knows. I’ve met people I could easily believe were Hephaestus or Hermes), they would take on a working class life and working blue collar jobs. I wouldn’t expect to see any of them taking high positions of power, being politicians or royalty. I would expect to run into them at the DMV, in line at the grocery store, or behind a cash register. I’d expect to see Apollo running a small Etsy shop, Hephaestus to work at a factory, Hermes to run a gas station or auto repair shop, Zeus to be a pilot, Poseidon to be a lifeguard or work at a community pool.

I see the gods in the everyday. I see them in all the things of my life and connect with them in everything I do, not just when I’m at my altar. Seeing the spectacular in the mundane or the ordinary was how I was raised and how I still work today. The Gods are there in chipped nail polish, calm Sunday mornings, road trips in a cheap car, and in the lyrics of my favorite songs. I started thinking about this more as I was curating a small playlist on Spotify for what I call “My Hymns”. They are regular songs that I associate with the Gods. Some have some spiritual meaning intended for a different deity, and some are just match the ✨vibes✨of the Gods. I listen to that playlist as a devotional act, letting each song remind me of its own god or goddess, letting my singing along or quiet listening be like a hymn being belted out to the rafters of my own private temple. It just gets me thinking about my Gods and it makes me happy.

I hope this all makes sense and I didn’t mince my words too much.

Cheers

-D

#personal #blog #hellenism #hellenic polytheist #hellenic polytheism #thoughts #Post #paganism #blue collar #upg #gods #goddesses #theoi #deities #essay #rant #hellenic gods #working class

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