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zertzertzhang · 4 years

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Stand and Deliver: My Life Turned Upside Down

A/N: This is my first time writing on Tumblr, so please bear with me! I am usually active on FFNet and AO3, but since this fandom is basically nonexistent except for here, I thought maybe I could post my works for this movie here. The story is a fanfic based on the 1988 movie ‘Stand and Deliver’ starring Edward James Olmos, and taking a deeper look into the lives of the impoverished students in East LA.

Eventual Angel/OC, and warnings of racial slurs with some physical violence.

Chapter One: Hellhole

The divorce shattered the Yang family to pieces. Vianne was no stranger to her mother’s scorn for her father, even at a young age. There were countless nights of screaming from Mrs. Yang, coupled with the frustrated curses her father threw in return. At one point, she was sure she heard plates crashing against the walls, but by the time she pumped up the courage to go check the next day, everything had been neatly restored. It was like the fight never took place.

Vianne was not stupid; the traces of her parent’s clashing were found in their silence. It was the harsh clatter of silverware against the bowls during dinner which reminded her that despite the calm nature of the family evenings, rage was just seconds from spilling onto the streets. Their house had just enough bearings to keep authorities from pounding the door on a weekly basis.

There wasn’t much left to solidify the hate between the spouses of the Yang household. By the time Vianne’s father suggested giving her a sibling to help bring her mother back, even she knew that it was a futile attempt to play house a little longer.

But to Vianne’s dismay, her mother agreed. Within months, blue paint littered around the spare bedroom in a massive heap, threatening to swallow the couple whole. Vianne didn’t react much when she realized a brother was coming her way, the increased shouting from Mrs. Yang frightened her as the due date neared. Her father would grumble incessantly about his wife’s mood swings and how that was what men got for marrying.

All of that was lost to Vianne; she was too young to comprehend full sentences, much less understand the hidden meaning behind her father’s statement. Maybe her brother would make her mother happy for once. She could envision her father playing with her in the fields as her mother and her brother sat on picnic mats to the side. They would be laughing just like how it used to be. Vianne wouldn’t have to stay awake, pressing her ears against the doors as more kitchenwares were broken. There would finally be peace...

Her mother’s eyes held the warmth of motherhood for no longer than a few seconds before the cold hollow overtook them again.

Peace never came. What happened in its stead was her brother screeching from his crib, all the while as her parents shrieked at one another over changing diapers. It made Vianne’s head split with thunderous agony. She never wanted to yell this badly, to make them just hug each other for once and stop talking. But such thoughts happened in her mind only. And before she knew it, they were back to throwing pots against the wall.

That lasted however long she remembered. Then came the papers, and she soon found herself holding baby Jack in her arms as her aunt ushered her into a stranger’s car. They said they would be taking care of them for a while. It dawned on Vianne that this was her first time meeting her mother’s family. There was no such thing as a happy reunion in this household.

She didn’t get to see her father after that, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to anyway. Not when the last thing she saw him doing was spitting onto her mother’s face as he tried to stop her from stepping out the door. No one knew that Vianne hid under the covers to cry herself to sleep once she settled in her new home.

And thus, Mrs. Yang became Ms. Lin once more. But for legal reasons, Vianne and Jack’s surname stayed. The minor details flew over her head; Vianne didn’t put much care on the subject. In the long run, the privilege to listen to the crickets chirp at night was enough to keep her satisfied.

That’s how things went for a while, with the emotional charge from her mother coming down for once in a long time. It wasn’t a surprise when Ms. Lin began going out all dolled up and pretty. The scent of her Saint Laurent eau de parfum clung to her skin as she whisked past the older Vianne. The girl felt a twist in her gut; she didn’t want to smell the hints of cologne her mother brought back after every weekend. However, she kept her mouth shut.

Ms. Lin didn’t hold back on her monetary needs. Thank god her salary as a lawyer cushioned their lifestyle. Despite being a single parent, her income had left a spacious room for extra spending. A shopping trip once a month was guaranteed, and that was when Vianne saw her mother at her very best. Talkative and cheery, Ms. Lin wasted no time in purchasing the latest trench-coats from Burberry as she gushed over how cute it looked on Vianne.

Something about her giggling mother put her at ease. The punching of the credit card’s number sent a rush of high in her blood, which only increased with Ms. Lin’s blabbering praise of how beautiful she looked in the mirror. She was well-fed and well-clothed; Vianne figured that there had to be a trade off somewhere. Not everything could be given, so she happily accepted the allowance. It was the closest she’d ever get to having her mother smother her in a crushing hug.

School was another topic. No doubt she was expected to do well in it; Vianne was sure her college expenses would be covered as well once she got to it. So she put the worry on that to the side as well. Her social life at school was decent, with her own clique of Asian Americans making up most of her friend group. It was genuinely a decent life for her, and for a moment, she thought this was going to be her forever.

Until it was news to her that her current school was going to be a thing of the past. Ms. Lin had become engaged to one of her former clients. Vianne was near her senior year of high school when her mother broke the news to her.

“Scott has a family of his own,” Ms. Lin explained. “His children are having a difficult time accepting us.”

Vianne lost her appetite and tossed her dinner down the dump. Her brain refused to tell her how to react, so her first response was denial. She wasn’t interested in a second dad or a second family, this was her happy medium. Besides, she still had Jack, so there wasn’t any long-term loneliness. Why was her mother complicating things?! What the hell?

“I don’t see how it’s our problem.” She tried to keep her voice cool, but the hint of frustration leaked nonetheless.

Her mother looked almost ashamed. Almost. “I’ll be moving in with Scott next week, Vianne. It’s to help his children get used to the new family members.”

The pause after the statement didn’t help the rising anxiety within Vianne. Her fingers clenched around the fork, digging the metal utensil into her soft skin so much that it stung. There was a catch to that announcement, she could feel it.

“What about me?” she asked. “What about Jack?”

Ms. Lin sucked in a breath, drumming her fingers on the mahogany table in a frenzy. And from experience, that only meant bad news. “Scott lives in the Bay Area. It’s too far away from Napa for me to come visit constantly if you stay. So I’ve decided to have you move back with your father.”

The world came undone from below and swallowed Vianne whole. Her mind was a blank sheet of paper, with no idea how to respond. It had been a decade of little to no contact with Mr. Yang, and the sudden contact with him was not going to lead to a happy talk over a cup of coffee. This was fucking ridiculous.

“You said you’d never let him see us again.” Her retort sounded irrelevant at worst, and petty at best. Not that this was going to change her mother’s engagement.

And sure enough, it wasn’t. Ms. Lin gave an exasperated sigh and pinched her nose. The shake of her head reminded Vianne of the way she would scold her when she was a child.

“Your father is doing better now. He’s…different,” her mother tried. “He’s simply not living in the best places out there. But that’s ok! You won’t stay there after graduation, and after you go to college, you’ll be coming back to Scott and me over breaks.”

Vianne could hear the blood in her ears bubbling like an overboiled teapot. “I don’t even know Scott that well, mom! How am I supposed to be his new family after you settle in?!”

The matriarch rolled her eyes at the scene, clearly not taking her daughter’s response well. “It’s a work in progress. I’ll make sure to bring them to you every once in a while to let them get comfortable. That’s why I’m moving in first.”

Her reasoning failed to get past Vianne’s anger, spurring her on. “So you’re just gonna dump us in LA with dad so you can live your comfy life?!”

That comment seemed to be the final nail onto the coffin, as Ms. Lin’s frown turned to a scowl in seconds. “I’m not dumping you anywhere, Vianne. It’s only going to be a year, and your allowance is staying the same! So stop being dramatic.”

Her mother’s cold gaze bore into her mind, freezing her in her tracks. It would serve both of them better if she conceded right there. Once her mother came to a decision, she was like an ox in the middle of a fight. There was no arguing out of this situation. The friends she had and the memories she made in Napa were now pipedreams wrapped up in a dusky alley. Her failure to even voice her opinions squeezed her lungs tight with perturbation.

The familiar pounding headache cursed her forehead, making her wince. Vianne had the sudden urge to smash plates just like her mother had done before. But she didn’t need a grounding on top of everything else, so she settled with pulling her lips back into a painful grin.

“What's the name of the school?” She expected her mother to answer that at least. Donning an air of nonchalance, Vianne tried to appear as unbothered as she could. The trembling of her hands were the only markers of betrayal. If Ms. Lin noticed her plight, then she took no interest in it. Her mother reached for a brown packet and tore it open.

A stack of papers slid out of the package, with the name ‘J.A. Garfield High School’ printed in bold fonts in the front page. It was her transfer letter.

Ms. Lin took a sip of her red wine before she continued her trail of thought. “I’ve given them your transcripts and coursework history already. You’ll be admitted in the second semester.”

“You’re really sending me to the ghetto.” Vianne felt the veins in her head pop. Quickly scouring through the papers, she came across her schedule. There was no AP Biology on the list, and there was definitely no AP BC Calculus on it either. In their places was a section marked as ‘Teaching Assistant’. And that was enough to send her ticking with rage.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” This time, she didn’t bother to hide her fury. “Why did they drop my classes?!”

Slamming the files down so hard that the china rattled, the young woman seethed as she stared her mother down. Ms. Lin wasn’t having any of it either, her fingers gripping the wine glass had turned pale with the increased pressure.

“The school doesn’t have AP courses, Vianne. They’re offering full credits for your two AP classes as compensation.”

The words that came out of her mother’s mouth stunned Vianne into silence. Graduation credits were worth nothing to her in college, this had to be some sick joke.

“What about my AP tests next year?” she hammered. “How am I supposed to take the tests without taking the classes?!” Her complaints were like flies buzzing around an agitated human. Ms. Lin simply waved them off without a second glance, as if her worries were nothing but unnecessary trivialities in life.

“You’re smart, sweetheart. You can study for them by yourself.” Her mother threw out the response like it was the obvious solution to her problem. “There’ll be more than enough spare time in your hands to bury yourself in books.”

Vianne quirked a brow. “Why?”

Ms. Lin actually smiled. But behind it were the vestiges of an arrogant smirk threatening to show itself to the surface. “Their coursework is basically non-existent. The catalogs are dated, and the materials are easy enough to be mistaken for a middle schooler’s level. You’ll have no trouble boosting your GPA up and acing your tests.”

If pride was a thing in her family, then it was going out the window. Vianne couldn’t believe her ears, nor could she stomach the sight of the letters. At this level, she might as well turn herself to a thirteen-year-old and go back to primary school. All her hard work was about to go up in flames because of that ghetto school. Hot tears rimmed along her eyes, sending her into a vortex of despair once more.

There wasn’t enough time to say goodbye to her friends; Kimberly’s birthday was in two weeks, and the whole group had a surprise beach trip planned out. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Mountains of projects she had been dedicated to simply poofed into air. Her hands clenched at the sides, doing their best to contain the urge to hit something.

The shifting of bodies alerted her of her mother’s departure from the living room; Ms. Lin was already up the stairs by the time Vianne shook herself back to reality. She looked over to the stove and was struck by the time it displayed on the counter. It was way too late into the early mornings.

“Your flights depart in two days.” The voice of her mother was drifting away into the distance. Their hollow vibrations from the hall sent her stomach dropping to the floor. “You should start packing soon, Vianne.”

That was the end of the conversation. It was made clear with the slam of Ms. Lin’s bedroom door, rattling its hinges. Neither of them were in the state to argue, and she knew it. Standing alone by the dining table, Vianne sniffled. Her nose was unbearably stuffy in addition to the increasing sting in her eyes.

She didn’t catch a wink of sleep that night.

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LAX was the definition of a madhouse. People shouted in all kinds of languages, deafening her ears and making Jack whimper on her side. Vianne held her brother close as she shoved their way through the gates of their section. The crowded mass on top of her migraine was slowly inching her towards a mental breakdown. After hauling off the last of her luggages from baggage claim, she ushered Jack to the main exit of the airport.

She knew she hadn't seen her father’s face in years, and the dreadful thought of not recognizing their only ticket out settled within her gut. Panic palpated in her heart as they came out of the building, with the sea of people not helping in the slightest.

Mr. Yang was next to unrecognizable when Vianne saw the massive sign with her name blaring in red. He looked different, much different than before. But then again, her seven-year-old perspective wasn’t all that trustworthy either. The face of her father hit her like a cold splash of water, and she found herself failing to greet him with the simplest ‘hello’. She merely stared at the balding man, unable to tear her eyes away from the beerbelly and narrowed eyes. Her father was a stranger to her, and it was then she realized that Jack had never even met their father.

Her brother scooted away from Mr. Yang when the man approached them, looking up to her with his teary gaze. Jack looked like he wanted to burst into a wailing fit. It was going to be a long ride back.

Heavy silence filled the car throughout the ride to her new home. Mr. Yang asked about her health and her school life, repeating the same questions he wrote to her weeks ago. Vianne kept the answers simple and precise, nodding and smiling to make it seem like she was engaged.

Jack, on the other hand, fidgeted endlessly in his seat in the back, looking anywhere but the front of the driver’s seat. The introduction between father and son was awkward to say the least. Vianne was just happy that they were now on their way to get the year over with. She clutched the phonebook in her pockets, memorizing all her friends’ numbers. It took her mind off things, if that was a positive note.

There could never be enough distractions for her, especially now that the three of them were stuck in the worst possible position. As if whatever deity in the heavens wanted to lay more unto the cruel joke, Vianne shook from her revere and noticed the selection of houses they were approaching.

Rundown and abandoned were the least of her worries. The neighborhood was like the cardboard cutout from a horror magazine. Desecrated with graffitis and empty beer cans, the streets were littered with grime and dust. It was obvious the town duster wasn’t a frequent worker there. And was that a person sitting on the roof of a car?!

Vianne’s eyes bulged as she squinted at the flailing man on top of a red Chevrolet. Men donned in tall hats paraded the city roads like they owned the place, causing a line of angry drivers honking at the ruckus. The pounding headache intensified at the sight, and she grumbled a string of curses to herself.

“Monterey Park is a lot better,” Mr. Yang spoke out of nowhere. “We’re gonna be away from these dirty shitbags.”

She flinched at the harsh edge of his voice, but didn’t say anything. By the crinkled lines between his brows and the frown on his lips, her father wasn’t in the mood for a good-natured chat. It was better that way, Vianne herself could feel her spirits waning with each mile.

The trio reached a small neighborhood in no time, and to her relief, it looked miles better than the houses she previously saw. The structures still retained the brittle fragility in appearance, but the paintings were even this time. And the lawns appeared to be taken cared of as well. Vianne felt the corners of her lip tug up in a hopeful smile.

But like any other good news, it was crushed to dust as soon as it presented itself. Her father didn’t use his keys to unlock the door. Instead, it swung open on its own accord, revealing the face of a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and leopard-printed blouse. Vianne’s mind jumped to the worst possible scenario, jumping back a good distance. The young woman stared at the fresh face for what felt like a long time, before the coughing from Mr. Yang pulled her from the staring contest.

“Clara, they’re my children; Vianne and Jack.” Her father’s gruff voice held her to the ground. Gesturing to the women next, he continued to speak. “Vianne, Jack, this is Clara. She’s my girlfriend.”

Despite him being this close to the two women, Mr. Yang was oblivious to the scowl that now stretched across his daughter’s face. Vianne put two and two together and realized why her mother refused to share too much of her father’s living situation. There was no way in hell she would have agreed to come had she knew of this beforehand. Her living arrangements were fucked up to no end, and for a moment, she contemplated ringing her mother on the spot.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Clara didn’t move from her position. She gave the two newcomers a pitying look, but her lips turned up to a smirk. “I’ve heard a lot about y’all.”

Jack stared at Vianne, lips pouting in morbid curiosity. The older sibling sighed and rolled her eyes; she was getting worked up over nothing. They only had to stay here for another year till graduation, so she reckoned she would find a way to grin and bear it.

“There are rules to this household.” Her father wasted no time in listing the regulations under his roof. “You won’t be able to run amok like ya did with your mother here. First, Clara is to be respected at all times.”

Mr. Yang was blind to the seething glare Vianne threw him as she unpacked her bags across the room. It was one thing to be forced to live under these conditions, but it was a totally different thing to be mandated around by a stranger who she detested. A biting remark made its way to her tongue, but was cut short by his rambling speech.

“Curfew is 6 pm sharp. No loitering around the streets after the sun goes down,” he continued. “No boys are allowed, and there will be no parties here.”

No one, and she meant no one, told her when she got to come home. The last time her mother set her a curfew was in middle school. And it was definitely not at that time either. She wasn’t interested in dating anyone from this neighborhood, much less bringing a boy back home. Parties were out of the question, Vianne had already made up her mind that she was going to burrow herself for a year before she dipped.

“I’ll stay out as much as I want.” It was a crisp retort, and she turned up her nose. “My car will be here in a few days. I’ll be fine.”

Mr. Yang’s nose flared at the comment. His eyes darkened, reminding her of the way he used to look at her mother. She didn’t voice it, but the familiar shivers ran down her spine. Avoiding his gazem Vianne took a sudden interest in the rings on her fingers.

“This ain’t Napa County, Vianne.” Her father’s hand shook. “You’ll be down in the dirt in no time if you don’t adapt to the people here.”

She ignored his statement and pulled out her luggage of clothes. Everyone knew of the nature of the ghetto people there. That was the reason she brought her car. Whatever it was, Vianne wasn’t going to touch them with a ten-foot pole.

“Whatever,” she mumbled. Sensing her displeasure in the conversation, Mr. Yang grumbled something about women, before throwing a stack of notebooks onto her bed. Vianne glanced at them, but made no attempt to retrieve the papers.

“These are the course intros for tomorrow.” Her father was opening a can of beer as he eyed her. “You and Jack are waking up at 7. No negotiations.”

“Sure, sure.” There was no reason to get into a fight, and she thought it was wise to choose her battles. A curt nod was all she gave him, before she slipped past her father to go find Jack. There was still time to brood over her state of affairs.

Time always flew when you were either panicking or on cloud nine. That would be the second night of the week where she didn’t get to sleep. Her eyes trailed to the calendar; today was her first day of school.

A/N: Sorry for the slow start! Juicy drama picks up in the next chapter! Reviews, criticism, and comments are welcome :3

And here's a shoutout to @classic80sand90smovieloves2 for inspiring and helping me write this out!

#stand and deliver #angel guzman #80s movies #fanfic #angel guzman imagine #80s movie imagines #lou diamond phillips #jaime escalante #edward james olmos #stand and deliver headcanon #fanfiction

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winterffxiv · 4 years

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I was tagged by @runawayera !! thank you so much miren! ♡ link

I did 8 kpop albums and 4 normal ones just because !! ^-^

albums: treasure ep.3: one to all by ateez / a.c.e adventures in wonderland by a.c.e / seventeen 2nd album 'teen, age' by seventeen / clé 1: miroh by stray kids / poison by vav / spotlight by vav / eau de vixx by vixx / love yourself: tear by bts / billy talent III by billy talent / dear agony by breaking benjamin / the greatest show unearthed by creature feature / the drug in me is you by falling in reverse

i’m tagging: @kihyunsgf @songmingkis @chanberrys @aethalen @heoneyology @chwejongho @hwallsgrl @hanstagrams @seungmin-wrecked @angelhyunjin @emeraldbabygirl @silverstonemanor

#tagged in #tag games #this was actually?? so much fun???????#if i was tagged to do this again i think i would tbh

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lidija003 · 3 years

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À quoi ressemble une journée très ordinaire dans le pays de la Serbie ...

Au pays de Serbie, où le moment le plus heureux de la vie de la plupart des animaux est le moment où ils meurent, car alors toute la douleur, la souffrance et les tourments dans lesquels ils ont vécu se terminent ...

400 à 600 chiens sont tués quotidiennement en sinters en Serbie ...

Certains de ces sinters sont complètement illégaux et les chiens y sont amenés et laissés sans nourriture et sans eau pour se massacrer, se manger et mourir dans leur propre merde et leur urine, et si quelque chose reste en vie, ils les tuent de la manière la plus monstrueuse ... .

150 à 200 chiens et chats sont tués chaque jour, c'est-à-dire qu'ils souffrent de véhicules sur les routes de Serbie .... heureux sont ceux qui meurent immédiatement et ne dérangent pas pendant des heures et des jours alors que la plupart passent à côté d'eux ....

Chaque jour sur le territoire de la Serbie, dans les pires tourments et agonies, au moins 100 chiens et chats meurent du poison qu'ils leur jettent ...

Au moins 50 chiens et chats en parfaite santé seront tués par des vétérinaires sans scrupules à la demande des propriétaires qui s'ennuient avec ces animaux ou qui n'en ont plus besoin ...

Peut-être le plus monstrueux est qu'en Serbie, au moins 50 chiens meurent chaque jour de faim et de soif attachés à de courtes chaînes et des fils coupés dans le cou dans le pire des tourments .... ce sont des chiens qui ont des propriétaires et qui les gardés dans les cours par divers grands hôtes ...

Et c'est encore mieux qu'il meurt au moins 30 fois par jour dans diverses pensions, asiles, hangars et granges, dirigés par divers "sauveteurs" et "gardes de sécurité" ...

Au moins vingt autres par jour seront tués par des chasseurs sur le thème de la protection des animaux sauvages contre les animaux errants ...

Total .... 800 à 900 chaque jour ...

20 à 25000 .... VINGT-CINQ MILLE ..... par mois ....

De 250 à TROIS MILLE ANS .....

.... les animaux en Serbie meurent dans les pires tourments ...

En Serbie, qui a l'une des meilleures lois pour la protection des animaux, dans laquelle la mise à mort des animaux est INTERDITE ...

Les rues regorgent d'animaux que les propriétaires jettent tous les jours parce qu'ils s'ennuient ou n'ont pas besoin d'en avoir de nouveaux.

Il y a à peine 30 pour cent d'animaux de compagnie déchiquetés, bien que la loi exige le déchiquetage obligatoire.

Les capteurs des chien abandonnés privés tuent 15 000 animaux par an, pour lesquels ils reçoivent des sommes énormes des budgets des communes qui les louent, leurs revenus dépassent donc le million d'euros.

Ils transportent les animaux dans de petites remorques métalliques pouvant accueillir un maximum de trois chiens et chargent plus de 40 chiens.

Les animaux dans ces remorques s'étouffent et s'abattent dans la peur de l'agonie et de la panique, et plus de la moitié n'arrivent pas vivants à destination, mais meurent dans les pires tourments.

Les associations et les particuliers déposent depuis des années des demandes que les institutions ignorent et rendent ainsi tout cela possible.

Les propriétaires de sinters privés sont tellement protégés qu'ils n'autorisent aucun contrôle, pas même à la police, qu'ils menacent ouvertement.

En plus de tout cela, nous avons l'Administration vétérinaire, qui en 2019 a reçu de l'Union européenne jusqu'à MILLIONS ET TROIS MILLE EUROS pour améliorer la situation en Serbia ...

La situation n'est jamais pire ... JAMAIS….

Quelque chose ne va pas avec vous ici?

Et quand est-ce suffisant?

Les associations et les particuliers proposent depuis des années des solutions totalement humaines et très applicables, auxquelles les institutions ne prêtent pas attention.

Aidez et dites avec votre signature que c'est suffisant ...

signé, confirme votre signature dans la mails qui vous recevez et PARTAGEZ SIL VOUS PLAIT ‼️

https://www.peticije.online/signatures_with_comments.php?petition_id=322844&page_number=3&num_rows=200

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idiomland · 5 years

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Hello everybody! 😊 Our idiom of the day is ”Blood, sweat, and tears”, which means “a lot of effort and suffering”.

Origin: the first occurrence of the expression that you can find in print is in “Sermons on Various Subjects” by Christmas Evans, translated from the Welsh by J. Davis, 1837:

“Christ the High Priest of our profession, when he laid down his life for us on Calvary, was bathed in his own blood, sweat and tears.”

Evans, a.k.a. 'The John Bunyan of Wales' (25 December 1766 - 1838) was an eccentric but widely admired preacher. We can't now be sure if it was he who coined the phrase or his translator. Either way, we can be sure that the phrase was in the language by 1837.

Christmas Evans knew the Bible by heart and was no doubt influenced in his choice of words by this passage from The King James Bible, Luke 22:44:

“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.”

The French and Italians, also Christian nations, have their own versions of the phrase - 'suer sang et eau' (sweat blood and water/tears) and 'lacrime e sangue' (blood and tears).

Didn’t understand this idiom? You need example sentences? Want to listen to the correct pronunciation? Try our app for learning English idioms - click the link onelink.to/zhdnr2

#learzing #idiomland #idiom #idioms #english #english language #English learning #learn english #learnenglish #englishlearning #Blood Sweat and Tears

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aprilislush · 4 years

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it isn’t over in your range rover

as i leave my silhouette in the frame of your hands / your cigarettes faces its final breath / and at this point i want you to hold me / by my throat and scream in sheer agony/ but you didn’t / you would often try to slay me with words, with a smile, or maybe just for a little too much sugar in your coffee black / but this time you didn’t / so I sit and stare as i give you my heart shapeless / but your arms are aimless / and your words are far braver than you can maintain / and at this point i feel myself splitting into too many rooms of static with this brutal distress / but this is what my pride demands / our love has faded like your favourite paco rabanne a million, eau de parfum / i still search for the dalliance of our love but we’re soured by mourning / we’re nothing just flesh and bones / two bodies no souls / broken lovers with the poison cup / we’ve met this sticky end / my heart beats like a bullet / your fingertips has the trigger / i have to break this love machine / so i run and i run far away / in places of places, everywhere and nowhere, where no man or woman has ever gone before / a scary path, a path no ones taken before / a sphinx, a mystery / i needed to leave but i just needed up being a wiser fool / the end comes upon us / gazing and as your memories are fading / the sun kissed us our last goodbye / and oh how we’ve lost our minds / it’s hard to deny, hard to forget but this our harsh fate /

but , please, come hold me, find me, and in this battle stand at my side. we’re the ghosts in afterlife, fallen angel and demon / Lucifer and Lilith, life and death / i pick myself up / prepare to leave / but everything comes flashing from the rear view mirror / right in front of my eyes / goodnight kisses / the first call miles away / you sending teddy bears every valentines / talking / killing pain / always arriving at the right time for everything / and yet again i refuse / i refuse to leave. one look at you /the same piercing look an archer takes upon its prey / and suddenly all the poems make sense. i’m powerless.

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chroniclesofawkwardness · 4 years

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This is My Blood

Blood is a fluid of life. And, as with life, we’ve had a bit of an odd relationship. At one time or another, I’ve colorized it, been taught how to drink and stop it, given it, then told I couldn’t.

I was in and out of the hospital a lot as a young child. Sometime between ages three and six, I had blood drawn and wholeheartedly believed it was was orange. Of course there were no witnesses to what I considered a medical miracle. The enthusiasm with which I reported my discovery to my mother and brother was understandably met with great skepticism. Instead of making the rounds on popular TV talk shows of the day like Sally Jesse Raphael, Donahue, or Geraldo, my unwavering conviction became a joke around the dinner table.

I would put on a veneer of calm, but remain seething underneath at the disbelief of those closest to me. I wanted to lash out, “You’ll see! One day, Phil Donahue is going to pick up my story; he just has to finish introducing hip-hop culture to a wider (whiter) audience first. I don’t care if the fainting spells some of his audience members experienced were staged. I’m going to be huge.”

Phil’s call never came. As colorblind as I was to the truth about my blood, I wanted to believe its orange hue was real. Part of me still does. Part of me always will.

Growing up Catholic meant my faith tried to impress upon me that sacrifice was the highlight of the mass, and I'd damn well better pay attention because my soul was riding on the line. If I blinked, I might miss a process called transubstantiation, whereby bread and wine became the actual flesh and blood of Christ, not cheap knock-offs from a Chinese factory, not symbols, not representations (insert savory pun here).

I can’t tell you how many times I stood nearby an altar as a server and heard a priest say:

“Through the mingling of this water and wine, may we come to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity.”

Then a big one:

“Take this, all of you, and drink from it: This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.”

*bell rings*

If translators argued about how Latin should be translated into other languages, or if a translation isn’t valid, the consecration of the bread and wine may not be either, I argued that orange should be added to the words spoken by a priest during the consecration. This way, orange blood could be shed for me and for all, and account for any misremembrance (of me) when I finally got to see what really happened after I’d died.

Why were we so concerned with the Last Supper anyway? If Christ humbled himself to share in our humanity, surely he had a sense of humor too? There's no way he got everything right on the first try. What if all the other suppers were dress rehearsals? Why don’t we hear about the outtakes and blooper reels that may be buried somewhere beneath the Vatican? A collection of Last Supper fuck-ups could have made my Catholic upbringing so much more relatable.

Imagine:

“Take this, all of you and uh…. uh… LINE!”

“Cut! Peter! Quit playing with you your food! That’s it! You are no longer the rock upon which I will build my church. You’re going to deny me anyway…”

“Oops. Can we edit that last prediction out and take it from the top? ROFL!”

“Lord, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this chicken is woefully undercooked. A skilled veterinarian could still save it.”

“Guys… I have a confession to make… I’m not God’s only son… In about 2,000 years, Steve McPherson from Eau Claire, Wisconsin is going to appear on something called television and tell a man named Phil Donahue that he has a shocking revelation to share with the world about his paternity. No one will believe him, but what he’ll have to say is true. It’s all part of the plan.”

I’ve never been much of an athlete. Still, as a native Ohioan and graduate of The Ohio State University, I’ve acquired a strong distaste for the Michigan Wolverines during my lifetime. My lack of athletic ability meant I didn’t have an opportunity to sacrifice my body (or blood) to defeat them on the gridiron. But during my freshman year, which coincided with the 2000 football season, I decided to try to beat *ichigan the best way I knew how: giving blood in the annual battle to see which university could donate more pints to the American Red Cross during the week of the game.

I sat in a chair designed to accommodate a blood donor and began squeezing the little ball I’d been given to regulate the flow of blood from my vein to the collection bag. Someone told me that giving blood wasn’t a race, but I forgot all about that as I watched the bag fill. It took me between six and seven minutes to donate my pint. I thought I wouldn’t need to eat a piece of Adriatico’s pizza (a thick, square-cut campus staple) that the same person said would be available if I felt lightheaded after donating. I stood up, and began to feel dizzy almost immediately. Having a piece of pizza sounded like a good idea after all.

By 2005, I had been to Serbia and back once in search of my next adventure. As much as I tried during and after college to distance myself from my humble beginnings, this was when I discovered the Tridentine Latin mass at Holy Family Church, and began to rededicate myself to the idea of religious piety.

The Tridentine mass attracted a more conservative, hardcore Catholic. I didn’t always see eye-to-eye with the attendees, but I enjoyed the solemnity of the celebration, the music, and the connection to a religious past that I’d only heard and read about; I was born almost twenty years after the guys at Vatican II decided having mass in local languages, instead of Latin, would make the faith more appealing to the masses (ha).

One of the more ardent attendees was Sister Margarita. Originally from Hungary, she’d been a medical doctor before becoming a bride of Christ. She emphatically stated that only males should serve mass, as only the blood of the new and everlasting covenant should be on the altar. I didn’t comprehend what she meant by this until a late-night shower thought I had several weeks later. When I finally connected the dots, I decided it was best to continue my studies and get back to the former Yugoslavia in pursuit of my dreams. I had to worry about my own body and blood after all.

I tried to donate blood again in 2013, while working for one of the largest financial institutions in the world. I’d been to Serbia and back twice more by then. I had a stable income for the first time in years, and lived in a place nicer than anywhere I’d ever been. Still, I never lost the desire to give back to the community that I learned from being a Boy Scout. Among the many things scouting taught me was first aid, including mnemonic devices such as, “If the head is pale, raise the tail” to help with blood flow, and tactics to handle bleeding events.

The bank frequently had philanthropic efforts, including blood drives,that didn’t make the news, which suited me just fine. I jumped at the chance to give blood again. I knew there was always a need, and I remembered how accomplished I felt during *ichigan week years before, despite feeling like I was going to pass out afterward.

I had to fill out a questionnaire before I could donate, so I was directed to sit a table behind the privacy of a curtain. I breezed through most of the questions until I came to one I really had to think about. It asked if I had spent more than four years in any of a list of counties between 1977 and the present. On the list was the former Yugoslavia. It was close, but I didn’t believe I'd spent more than four years there. I seriously thought about complaining that the question was unfair. I hadn’t been born until four years after the date range began, and I couldn’t account for all of my parents' whereabouts as they were carrying the egg and sperm cells that would later unite to create me.

Despite my reservations, I filled in the “yes” circle because I was nervous. A scout is trustworthy, but I couldn’t remember the exact dates of every flight I’d taken to and from the land of southern Slavs. Had I lied, no one would have known about it until well after the fact. I decided not to risk it then, but I still wonder if there’s a support group somewhere for people who’ve been blacklisted by the American Cross after inadvertently fibbing about their donation. If it was up to me, I’d call it: This is My Blood.

I can see the group meeting in a basement of a local Methodist church on Wednesdays to trade anemia anecdotes, AIDS adventures sickle-cell stories, and transfusion tales. There’d be lots of hugs, and somebody would always break down crying during story time. Me? I��d be content to sit quietly with my complementary coffee and doughnut, and have people wonder what terrible things I must have done to end up there because I never shared.

A guy in scrubs came to collect my questionnaire and left me waiting like a game show contestant who’d given their answers confidently, but instantly regretted not being 100 percent certain once they realized their life could change for the better, or they could fail miserably. Adding to the tension, each contestant would be well aware that their potential elation (or agony) would only be amplified by the reactions of a studio audience filled strangers, and those yelling at their televisions while watching from home.

Take this, all of you, and drink from it: This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant…

I knew I didn’t have AIDS or another sexually transmitted disease, so I expected scrubs to return pretty quickly. Early Christians probably felt the same way about Jesus after his ultimate sacrifice. More that 2,000 years later, as my seconds of waiting turned into minutes, stories I’d heard of ancient blood oaths taken on the Balkans started swirling through my head. I’d never taken a blood oath that I could remember, but I do remember watching the scene from My Girl when Thomas J. and Vada became blood brothers. It was disgusting.

…it will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven…

I suddenly longed for forgiveness, not from God, but from the pencil I’d used to mark that regrettable, uncertain response. I couldn’t go back and tell them that while most recently in Serbia, I’d eaten a largely vegetarian diet, consistent with that of my self-described fat lawyer turned yoga teacher. It was too late.

No bells rang when scrubs finally pulled back the curtain after five minutes that felt like five hours. He admitted he’d never had anyone else answer yes to the question that included Yugoslavia, which was why he’d been gone so long. Then came the bombshell: He said answering yes to that question meant I might have Mad Cow Disease lying dormant in my brain, and I shouldn’t donate blood again until a vaccine was developed against Mad Cow Disease in humans. The fail sound from The Price is Right, my favorite game show, played in my ears.

I don’t know what the symptoms of Mad Cow Disease in humans are, but for what it’s worth, I'm proud to say that I rarely moo with rage or regret. Until I can donate blood again, I encourage those who can to do so whenever possible.

Do this in memory of me.

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vocabmeme · 5 years

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New Post has been published on http://dailyvocab.com/photos/whiff/

Whiff

(noun) a smell that is only smelt briefly or faintly. “I caught a whiff of eau de cologne”

(noun) an unpleasant smell.

(noun) an act of sniffing or inhaling. “I found my inhaler and took a deep whiff”

(noun) a trace or hint of something bad, menacing, or exciting. “there had been a whiff of financial scandal in the past”

(noun) a puff or breath of air or smoke. “whiffs of smoke emerged from the boiler”

(noun) (chiefly in baseball or golf) an unsuccessful attempt to hit the ball. get a

(noun) brief or faint smell of. “he whiffed the broth that was simmering on the stove”

(verb) get a brief or faint smell of. “he whiffed the broth that was simmering on the stove”

Whiff meaning in Hindi (English to Hindi meaning)

कश, झलक, हल्की गन्ध, झोंका, उड़ कर आना

Whiff origin

late 16th century (originally in the senses ‘gust of wind’ and ‘inhalation of tobacco smoke’, also, as a verb, ‘blow with a slight gust’): imitative.

early 18th century: perhaps from whiff1.

Whiff our in a sentence (word usage in recent Hindu newspaper)

India may soon break into the top 50 in ease of doing …, India is within touching distance of a place in the top 50 best places to do … The World Bank ranking comes as a whiff of fresh air for the Indian …

It’s time for Shillong’s cherry blossom festival, Pretty-in-pink blooms awash cherry blossom trees and the whiff of barbeque … music, and dance performances by natives of North East India.

Uttar Pradesh jail riot with cop torture and food grouse whiff, Five policemen including the deputy jailer at Gorakhpur jail were injured on Friday when a group of inmates attacked them at 6.30am and took …

India vs South Africa: Bowling allies and familiar follies, But once they get a whiff, this Indian attack can be ruthless. They reduced the Proteas to 136/6 at lunch. Even though Faf du Plessis fought a …

India’s booming appetite for opioids, For Indian cancer patients who once writhed in agony, there are ….. a reckless morphine addict or any whiff of scandal somewhere on the …

Mnemonic trick to remember the meaning of Whiff

whiff sounds like SNIFF….I could sniff (smell) the fragrance of the flowers in a whiff of air.

WHI..WHY..SO why to give a HINT TO someone strange about your house..

Whiff pronunciation

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gracieuserobert · 5 years

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– Bien, mon petit bouchon, il est temps de parler de nos vacances en Toscane.

Voix off de l’assistant : – Parlez de VOS vacances, moi, je me suis occupé de la petite Candice.

– Oui, et alors ? Il fallait bien que tu t’occupes un peu pendant que je me promenais pour étudier la région, crois-tu que je t’aurais emmené juste pour ton plaisir ?

Voix off : – Mais vous m’aviez promis que je pourrais vous accompagner pour prendre des notes, et vous avez fait des sorties juste à deux, avec la voisine. Et j’ai gardé le bébé tout seul.

– Tu t'es amusé ?

Voix off : – Oui ! Elle est adorable.

– Alors ? Commençons ce récit par le voyage en avion. Tu sais que j’ai voulu lui donner un peu d’alcool de poire pour qu'elle dorme enfin, mais que sa mère ne voulait pas ?

Voix off : – En donner à la mère ? Pourtant, elle a peur de l’avion, cela aurait pu l’aider.

– A la gamine aussi, mais bon… Apparemment, ce n’est pas vraiment permis. Les gens se sont offusqués quand j’en ai parlé. Aucun sens de l’évolution, ces gens, je n’ai pas proposé de la bière, tout de même !

Voix off : – Euh, Gracieuse, l’alcool de poire est bien plus…

– C’est un fruit, les enfants de cet âge mangent des fruits, non ?

Voix off : – Oui oui. Donc, comment se déroula votre journée à Florence ? Puisque moi, je fus consigné à l'hôtel le temps qu'elle fasse sa sieste. Puis quand je vous ai rejointes, vous étiez...

– Très beau ! Ça m’a rappelé pourquoi j’ai inclus cette ville dans les voyages forment la jeunesse.

Voix off : – vous n’y décrivez pas vraiment la ville, quand même.

– C’est pas le but, mon p’tit bouchon. Puis Sienne, l'étude se déroula aussi sous la drache. Apparemment, les Italiens ont goûté à la drache Belge, et ils n’aiment pas ça. Enfin moi non plus, je n’allais pas en Italie pour goûter à leur eau, si tu vois ce que je veux dire.

Voix off : – Déjà, pour les lecteurs français, la drache est une pluie forte, que nous appelons ainsi en Belgique. Vous m’avez fait venir en express, par le train, un jour plus tôt, alors que j’avais un rendez-vous !

– Avec la petite du troisième ?

Voix off : – Euh… Non… Avec Maman, nous devions aller au cinéma.

– Oui, donc, rien d’important, en gros.

Voix off : – Pour vous, non, puisque vous étiez tout le temps en sortie ! Pourtant, nous avions conclus en préparant ce voyage, qu’il n’y aurait pas de sortie le soir !

– Nous ne sommes pas sorties tous les soirs, d’abord. Arrête de te plaindre. C'était culturel, c'est pas ce que tu crois.

Voix off : – Une mère dévouée reste auprès de son enfant. Tout le temps.

– Et les baby-sitter, c’est pas pour les chiens ? Tu étais là, et tu jouais avec cette petite, alors arrête de te plaindre !

Voix off : – Puisque vous étiez toutes les deux en train de cuver, je n’avais pas le choix !

– Bon bon bon, trêves de bavardages, donc, nous parlions de la Toscane, magnifique région d’Italie, au milieu de la bonne, où se situe Florence, qui contient vingt-cinq pour cent des richesses historiques du Moyen-Âge. Cette magnifique ville se battit longtemps avec Sienne, que je redécouvris sous un parapluie et un k-way. Il n’empêche que…

Voix off : – Vous ne vous êtes pas gênée pour me faire changer cette enfant– … Partout dans Florence.

– Oui, ça, maintenant que tu en parles, ils ne sont pas très évolués au niveau de l’éducation des enfants, dans les toilettes pour hommes, tu ne peux même pas changer la couche de cet enfant. A quoi sert-il que je t'ai emmené ?

Voix off : – Vous me fîtes aller dans les toilettes des femmes !

– Oui et alors ? La gamine faisait un sourire et ça passait, non ?

Voix off : – Et la route du chianti ? Je me suis retrouvé dans les conditions de votre notice de la route du champagne ! Ceux qui ont lu les Gracieuses notices savent de quoi je parle !

– Tu fais de la publicité pour mes autres œuvres, maintenant ?

Voix off : – si je veux être payé, je suis bien obligé. C’est Maman qui m’a donné ce conseil avisé.

– Elle t’en a donné d’autres, la vieille ?

Voix off : – Gracieuse ! Un peu de respect pour celle qui m’éleva aussi bien !

– Elle aurait dû venir aussi, si elle aime tant les enfants, entre les odeurs des couches et le déménagement quotidien pour le confort de la morveuse, je n’en pouvais plus !

Voix off : – Il est vrai que de nous regarder faire en vociférant que l’on était en retard pour la visite que je vous avais organisée, vous manquâtes de perdre votre voix !

– Savais-tu que l’Italie fut réunifiée intégralement en 1860 seulement, mon petit bouchon ? Avant, les villes étaient des républiques, et chacune voulait étendre son territoire. D’où les rivalités nombreuses, dont celle que je vis fortement, entre Sienne et Florence.

Voix off : – Ce sont pourtant deux belles villes, qui ont chacune leurs qualités. Enfin, pour ce que j’en vis, puisque je devais m’occuper de la petite fille increvable que nous devions emmener partout.

– Ne te plains pas, elle dormait, quand elle ne te réclamait pas de marcher.

Voix off : – Vous avez déjà dû marcher à la vitesse d’un bébé, vous ? J’ai eu le temps d’apprendre les 17 quartiers de Sienne par coeur !

– Le Chianti est un alcool très intéressant à découvrir, aussi, par ailleurs. J’aime beaucoup la légende du coq qui…

Voix off : – Celle que vous avez beuglée au chauffeur qui vous conduisait aux divers domaines ? Pauvre homme, il parlait français, mais je crois que la prochaine fois, il va préférer emmener des allemands pour ne plus entendre cette histoire de coq qu’on gave trop et qui du coup, oublie de chanter au lever du jour.

– Regarde avec toi, j’ai des résultats, tu ne manges que quand tu as bien travaillé, et finalement…

Voix off : – Je vais quand même vous rappeler ce que je vous appris, juste avant de partir, dans la voiture, avant que vous ne commenciez à vider les bouteilles de chianti de chaque dégustation !

– San Giminiano est la ville aux 14 tours. Celles qui furent conservées du Moyen-Âge. Vous n'avez pas parlé non plus de la légende de Ste Thérèse aux violettes.

– Qu'est-elle devant Florence l'incontournable ? La ville où le David de Michelange est mondialement reconnu et visité. Apprécié aussi pour sa plastique... Hum... On ne trouve pas ça chez Sienne la jalous...

Voix off : – Gracieuse ! Parlez plutôt du Val d'Orcia : Pie-nza.

– Ah oui, bientôt, nous assisterons à la naissance de Gracioza, ville de Gracieuse, où la bière et le chocolat couleront à flot.

Voix off : Certes ! Vous dûtes avoir cette idée lors de votre consommation excessive de Montepulciano ! Je ne parlerais pas de la photo souvenir où vous avez voulu tenir la tour de Pise avec vos mains. Pauvres touristes qui se trouvaient autour ! Je ne vous félicite pas non plus ! Heureusement que je sûs négocier avec la polizia en italien ! Et que je vantais i gelati et les mérites de Pise par rapport à Florence ! Enfin, la petite Candice avec ses sourires charmeurs m'y aida grandement.

– La peste qui a cassé mon téléphone ?

Voix off : – Ou c'est Gracieuse qui l'a fait tomber en étant bourrée ?

– Lucca ! Ses remparts, ses glaces aux multiples goûts, la rhum-raisins, notamment... Avec beaucoup de rhum...

Voix off : – Volterra, la patrie des vampires de Twilight,

– Arrête avec tes vampires boutonneux pour ados romantiques ! L'albâtre était bien plus intéressant tout de même !

Voix off : – Vous... Tant qu'il y a la quantité... Je pense aux menus, entre autres, pasta, 4 services d'office. Vous vous en êtes mis plein la panse, comme vous dîtes, en effet ! D'ailleurs, pouvons-nous parler de votre balance, ou vous la laissez toujours au placard, après l'avoir agonie d'insultes ? Je ne veux pas dire, mais les vacances sont bientôt terminées et... – Silence. Nous allons devoir préparer l'horoscope de la rentrée, alors prends un stylo et au travail, nous avons encore...

Voix off : – J'ai compris, oui, j'ai encore du travail pour lire vos notes manuscrites.

#voyage #italie #récitcourt #histoirecourte

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