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ari-burr · 1 year

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~ Allen F. Jones • Headcanons ♡

Allen’s motto is: “If your gonna do something dumb, be fuckin’ smart about it.”

Which doesn’t grant much surprise when his close friends and family find out how much a felon he really is.

These days however, he makes sure all his stunts aren’t too common or deplorable for him to get tracked down and thrown behind bars.

Allen had learnt the hard way after Oliver couldn’t handle bailing him out anymore which resulted to leaning on Matthieu as a last resort to wrangle the shit out of him.

And the moment he left the prison with his brother in tow, not only was he half deaf from the yelling [in French and in English], but also a bit more bruised up than before he stepped inside.

Due to his many infamous feats in the law, Allen has become regrettably well acquainted with the cops who’ve been arresting him. So much so, that whenever he spots a familiar policeman on the street or in a nearby restaurant he’ll flip them the bird and walk by without a care.

As if he isn’t disrespecting the people who can throw him in jail for the 50th time.

Allen has a strong New York accent. And added with his deep and somewhat gruff voice, people perceive him to be dangerous or dangerously attractive. [Allen’s fine with either or ;>].

He does enjoy shooting guns like Alfred, but enjoys short-ranged weapons as well. Allen's naturally gifted with any melee-weapons. Be it knifes, bats, handguns, you name it.

His real specialty though, is hand to hand combat.

If or when he and Alfred get into a fight Allen can honestly give the latter a run for his money if weapons aren't involved.

After the first few years of introduction, things between the two were pretty rocky since both came from completely separate heritages and in turn, disagreed on a plethora of things when it came to running the country.

~ But turning to the subject of him and you, you probably first saw the latter during the dead of night. Sitting in a park where the streetlights limelight glow illuminated his form—or perhaps smoking less than legal substances in an alley way with a certain Chinese man.

You, living in New York, knew better than to hang out around alleys, have small talk with strangers and stick around longer than you should. Especially in this side of the city in the 1970s. So the most you would do was spare a quick glance and walk off on your merry way.

When you first moved to Manhattan, you held a very general idea of what the city might be like.

Densely populated, filled with rude people, stoners getting high in the alleyways, hookers coming in and out of bars, overpriced apartments, and much, much more. Course, you understood that not every part of the city was terrible. But being street-smart was your best ticket in avoiding any trouble.

And after seeing those familiar red-tainted auburn hair with a certain cow-lick sticking up more than once, it left your mind screaming the words danger and leave.

Allen’s reputation was deeply rooted within darkest parts of New York, and while he hasn’t committed any serious crimes to receive the death penalty yet, it was best not to cross paths with the latter.

Or at least get on his bad-side.

But you, being part of the unlucky bunch, has.

Having developed a sharp tongue since childhood, you obtained a nasty habit of insulting people in between sentences. All of it was purely involuntary as no one corrected you until much later into adulthood.

So you made sure to keep conversations short and to the point. To protect not only the other persons feelings, but the strain it took minding every phrase.

Allen one night, had walked up next to you after you were finally released from your job hours. When he saw you leaned up against the stone wall at behind the building and simply relishing in the icy air prickling your skin and cooling your fiery nerves, all of it lit a spark in his mind.

You were the the person he kept seeing.

The poor soul that continued to make their way into his thoughts.

So what’s the harm in trying to get to know you? But of course, the conversation doesn’t go as smoothly as he planned.

“Hey dollface, haven’t I seen you somewhere before~?”

Your eyes flicked over to him as you replied in a heartbeat,

“Yes, that’s why I don’t go there anymore.”

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venikamenon · 6 years

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Boundaries & The Men Who Did Not Respect Mine

In light of the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation hearings, the #metoo movement, the accusations against powerful people in the entertainment industry in India, discussions around sexual assault have been inescapable. Here are a few instances that impacted my life profoundly.

This is going to be a little long and a little all over the place but strap in, because it’s an emotionally exhausting ride.

This story begins in 6th grade.

My maa and I were vacationing in Shimla, a north Indian mountain-covered city. On our last night there, we were waiting in a crowded bus station for our Volvo to depart.

I was wearing a white puffy jacket, given to me as a present by my American aunt and uncle, which automatically made it more special than all of my other jackets. I don’t remember anything about this vacation apart from what was about to happen, but I remember being happy. I remember smiling at all the other families that waited along with us. My mother, the sole provider for my family of five, was first and foremost a bad ass professional (a word I would not have been allowed to use back then), so when she was able to tear herself away from her work, it was a reason to celebrate.

I remember smiling at this man who was looking at me.

Me, I was 10-11 at the time.

I did not think anything of it in the moment. But pretty quickly, I realized this man was following my maa and I around. Every time I looked up – and I did have to look up as I was a short chubby child –, he was a few feet away. His face holding a smile and his eyes staring right at me, unwavering, unblinking, focused.

I remember feeling uncomfortable, not being able to breathe, and looking at my maa for help, but not being able to say anything.

Every time, I would turn my back to him, he would circle around us to be in my field of vision. Over and over again. No matter where I looked and how hard I tried to look away. I was frozen, stuck in a nightmare, unable to vocalize.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally boarded the bus. As I looked back one last time to check if I was safe, I was horrified to see him walk on after us. That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t be trapped on this bus with this man for hours. I remember beginning to tear up, and whisper to my maa some incoherent words about this man following me and smiling at me.

She immediately stood up and screamed in the bus “THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME”. She didn’t ask me if I was sure, she didn’t ask me why I didn’t say something sooner, she didn’t ask if I had proof. She stood up and screamed “THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME” and in that moment, protected me and took the public burden off of me.

This man immediately ran out. No one on the bus said anything.

I don’t remember anything else from this whole trip, but I will never forget this man’s face and how this man made me feel. He made me feel dirty and ashamed, as if I had done something wrong. He made me want to rip my soul out of my body and put in in another new and unseen one.

Two things happened as a result of this. First, to the confusion of my mother, I refused to wear that white jacket again, even though it was the warmest, the fanciest and the favoritest jacket that I owned. I couldn’t separate that memory from the clothes I wore that night, no matter how irrational the connection. And if I couldn’t get rid of my body, this was the closest thing I could throw out.

Second, I stopped smiling at strangers.

All this and I’d never even been touched. I would not be able to prove anything in a court of law.

This was the first time the ether had whispered to me, beware of strange men – a recurring theme in every woman’s life, but particularly in India where the danger is “out there” (a notion with heavy classist connotations but that is for another time).

At 17, I moved to New York to pursue my education at a liberal progressive school with 70% women-identifying folk. A safe place.

At the end of my first week of school, a safe place, I called my maa and told her that one of my friends, in the room opposite of mine, had been raped by another student. Both of them were women. Anyone can be an abuser, but what was most shocking was that the abuser just dropped out the very next day of the case being filed with the school, so this person faced no consequences. However, this is not my story to tell.

I know this story does not fit neatly into the man-assualts-woman narrative, but the truth is messy and full of nuance. The other truths are that statistically, men are the primary perpetrators of interpersonal and sexual violence, and that almost all women know someone or have themselves been victims of sexual violence or harassment. It was the first time I witnessed an institution be unable to hold an abuser accountable.

My second year at college, I took an intermediary French class with Man Trash. Man Trash and I were friends, the way you are friends with someone in your class when you need to know when the next test is and what the homework is. We would often be in the same spaces because Man Trash was a good friend of one of the men in my Sophomore year crew. Man Trash was always funny, good at French and nice to me. But, when Man Trash expressed interest in one of my other friends, I became a little concerned. You see, I had heard through the grape vine that Man Trash had been accused of non-consensual touching. I looked into it a little further and found out that two women on separate occasions had brought up the fact that Man Trash had not respected their boundaries. So, when my friend expressed reciprocal interest in Man Trash, I had to confront him before things got any further.

Man Trash proceeded to tell me that it was all a misunderstanding, that alcohol was involved and that the school had already looked into it and they didn’t find anything. And I believed him.

I had been on the school’s Sexual Assault Task Force for a year at this point and had thorough insight into how flawed the investigative procedure could be. I had mocked these pathetic excuses of “alcohol” and “misunderstanding” for vile behaviour from men I didn’t know, mainly online, before.

And yet, I believed him because we had partied together, and he was always nice to me. He was my man friend’s good friend. He helped me with my French homework. I never tried to find out more details or to corroborate if what he told me was true.

A year later, while I studied in Paris my junior year, he raped another friend of mine. However, this is not my story to tell.

This was the first time I was complicit and was unable to hold an abuser accountable. I am so sorry to the women I failed by associating with this despicable human being and giving others the impression that he was safe to be around.

That year when I was in Paris, I used Tinder for the first time. The first Tinder date I went on was at a bar, and it went well. He offered to drop me home. Once we were in his car, he insisted that we go back to his place, even though I repeatedly said no. In a very calm voice, he kept insisting “let’s go to my place.” He did not shout. He did not act violent. But he kept driving away from my house. I was terrified. I finally said I was going to call my friends if he didn’t stop immediately. That’s when he reluctantly turned the car around. When I typically tell this story, it’s for a laugh: ha ha the one time I was almost kidnapped ha ha.

One of my closest NY friends – a man – has recently been encouraging me to get back on Tinder. I haven’t been able to explain to him why it’s just not for me. I can’t explain to him how trapped I felt in that car in Paris that one time. How suffocating it was to say no repeatedly and be talked over and ignored. I can’t separate that memory from that app, no matter how irrational the connection.

There isn’t even time for the story about the man who asked if he should send me a picture of his penis in the middle of our conversation about skateboarding, or the man who grabbed my butt on the train, the man who followed me on to campus one night when I got home too late etc.

As women, we are encouraged to either bear our souls and recount our most horrific experiences for the benefit of some men maybe perhaps kind of understanding our frustration and distrust of men a tiny bit, or move the fuck on with our lives because god forbid our emotions inconvenience you.

Here, I would like to clarify that in no way I’m saying what has happened to me is the same as sexual assault. Too many women I know have experienced way worse. My point being: women experience gross and blatant, sometimes traumatic, disregard for their boundaries all the time.

When my mother was first starting off her career, her boss gave her a few x-rated magazines to file. She quit shortly after.

When my high school friend was on the way to a birthday party with this boy we had both known for many years, he tried to grab her on the way there. He apologized to her years later and she may have forgiven him, but I never will.

A fellow college alum who graduated many years before me, recently wrote about how her abuser was trying to re-invent himself in the age of #metoo as a changed man, having never apologized to her or shown any repentance.

My favorite statistician, Mona Chalabi, finally reported someone she used to work with who regularly send her inappropriate messages.

I know there are other stories out there, but none of them are mine to tell. But in each of these cases, the perpetrators faced no lasting consequences.

I am using this to process and to collect my own thoughts. If you made it through to this part, I don’t have a neatly packaged message for you.

Sometimes, I want to scream till my lungs give out. Sometimes, I want to write till my laptop dies. Silence is no longer an option for many of us.

#brett kavanope #brett kavanaugh #dr blasey ford #believe women #me too #no means no #me too india

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