#i only identify as black/caribbean
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Black Women writing SFF
The post about Octavia Butler also made me think about the injustice we do both Butler, SFF readers, and Black women SFF writers by holding her up as the one Black Woman Writing Sci-Fi. She occupies an important place in the genre, for her creativity, the beauty and impact of her writing, and her prolific work... but she's still just one writer, and no one writer works for everybody.
So whether you liked Octavia Butler's books or didn't, here are some of the (many!!! this list is just the authors I've read and liked, or been recommended and been wanting to read) other Black women writing speculative fiction aimed at adults, who might be writing something within your interest:
N. K. Jemisin - a prolific powerhouse of modern sff. Will probably have something you'll like. Won three Hugo awards in a row for her Broken Earth trilogy. I’ve only read her book of short stories, How Long ‘Til Black Future Month? and it is absolutely story after story of bangers. Creative, chilling, beautifully written, make you think. They’re so good and I highly recommend the collection. Several of her novels have spun out of premises she first explored through these short stories, most recently “The City Born Great” giving rise to her novel The City We Became. Leans more fantasy than sci-fi, but has a lot of both, in various permutations.
Nisi Shawl - EDIT: I have been informed that Nisi Shawl identifies as genderfluid, not as a woman. They primarily write short stories that lean literary. Their one novel that I’ve read, Everfair, is an alternate-history 19th century that asks, what if the Congo had fought off European colonization and became a free and independent African state? Told in vignettes spanning decades of political organization, political movements, war tactics, and social development, among an ensemble of local African people, Black Americans coming to the new country, white and mixed-race Brits, and Chinese immigrants who came as British laborers.
Nnedi Okorafor - American-Nigerian writer of Africanfuturism, sci-fi stories emphasizing life in present, future, and alternate-magical Africa. She has range! From Binti, a trilogy of novellas about a teenage girl in Namibia encountering aliens and balancing her newfound connection to space with expectations of her family; to Akata Witch, a middle-grade series about a Nigerian-American girl moving to Nigeria and learning to use magic powers she didn’t know she had; to Who Fears Death, a brutal depiction of magical-realism in a futuristic, post-war Sudan; to short stories like "Africanfuturism 419", about that poor Nigerian prince who’s desperately sending out those emails looking for help (but with a sci-fi twist), and "Mother of Invention" about a smart house taking care of its human and her baby… she’s done a little bit of everything, but always emphasizes the future, the science, and the magic of (usually western) Africa.
Karen Lord - an Afro-Caribbean author. I actually didn’t particularly like the one novel by her I’ve read, The Best of All Possible Worlds, but Martha Wells did, so. Lord has more novels set in this world—a Star Trek-esque multicultural, multispecies spacefuture set on a planet that has welcomed immigrants and refugees for a long time, and become a vibrant multicultural planet. I find her stories rooted in near-future Caribbean socio-climatic concerns like "Haven" and "Cities of the Sun" and her folktale-fantasy style Redemption in Indigo more compelling. And more short stories here.
Bethany C. Morrow - only has one novella (short novel?) for adults, Mem, but it was creative and fascinating and good and I’d be remiss not to shout it out. In an alternate-history 1920s Toronto, scientists have discovered how to extract specific memories from a person—but then those memories are embodied as physical, cloned manifestations of the person at the moment the memory was made. The main character is one such “Mem,” struggling to determine who she is if she was created from and defined by one single traumatic memory that her original-self wanted to remove. It’s mostly quiet, contemplative, and very interesting. (Morrow has some YA novels too. I read one of them and thought it was okay.)
Rebecca Roanhorse - Afro-Indigenous, Black and "Spanish Indian" and married into Diné (Navajo). I’ve read her ongoing post-apocalyptic fantasy series starting with Trail of Lightning, and am liking it a lot; after a climate catastrophe, the spirits and magic of the Diné awakened to protect Dinetah (the Navajo Nation) from the onslaught; and now magic and monsters are part of life in this fundamentally changed world. Coyote is there and he is only sometimes helpful. She also has a more traditional second-world epic high fantasy, Black Sun, an elaborate fantasy world with quests and prophecies and seafaring adventure that draws inspiration from Indigenous cultures of the US and Mexico rather than Europe. She also has bitingly satirical and very incisive short stories like “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience” about virtual reality and cultural tourism, and the fantasy-horror "Harvest."
Micaiah Johnson - her multiverse-hopping novel The Space Between Worlds plays with alternate universes and alternate selves in a continuously creative and interesting way! The setup doesn’t take the easy premise that one universe is our own recognizable one that opens up onto strange alternate universes—even the main character’s home universe is wildly different in speculative ways, with the MC coming from a Mad Max-esque desert community abandoned to the elements, while working for the universe-travel company within the climate-controlled walled city where the rich and well-connected live and work. Also, it’s unabashedly gay.
And if you like audiobooks and audio fiction (I listened to The Space Between Worlds as an audiobook, it’s good), then Jordan Cobb is someone you should check out. She does sci-fi/horror/thriller audio drama. Her works include Janus Descending, a lyrical and eerie sci-fi horror about a small research expedition to a distant planet and how it went so, so wrong; and Descendants, the sequel about its aftermath. She also has Primordial Deep, about a research expedition to the deep undersea, to investigate the apparent re-emergence of a lot of extinct prehistoric sea creatures. She’s a writer/producer I like, and always follow her new releases. Her detailed prose, minimal casts (especially in Janus Descending), good audio quality, and full-series supercuts make these welcoming to audiobook fans.
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Nalo Hopkinson - a writer who should be considered nearly as foundational as Octavia Butler, honestly. A novelist and short story writer with a wide variety of sci-fi, dystopian futures, fairy-tale horror, gods and epics, and space Carnival, drawing heavily from her Caribbean experiences and aesthetics.
Tananarive Due - fantastical/horror. Immortals, vampires, curses, altered reality, unnerving mystery. Also has written a lot of books.
Andrea Hairston - creative and otherworldly, weird and bisexual, with mindscapes and magic and aliens.
Helen Oyeyemi - I haven’t read her work but she comes highly recommended by a friend. A novelist and short story writer, most of her work leans fairytale fantastical-horror. What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours is a collection of short fiction and recc’ed to me as her best work. White is for Witching is a well-regarded haunted house novel.
Ashia Monet - indie author, writer of The Black Veins, pitched as “the no-love-interest, found family adventure you’ve been searching for.” Magic road trip! Possibly YA? I’m not positive.
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This also doesn’t include Black non-binary sff authors I’ve read and liked like An Owomoyela, C. L. Polk, and Rivers Solomon. And this is specifically about adult sff books, so I didn’t include Black women YA sff authors like Kalynn Bayron, Tomi Adeyemi, Tracy Deonn, Justina Ireland, or Alechia Dow, though they’re writing fantasy and sci-fi in the YA world too.
And a lot of short stories are out there in the online magazine world, where so many up and coming authors get their start, and established ones explore offbeat and new ideas. Pick up an issue (or a subscription!) of FIYAH magazine for the most current Black speculative writing.
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For black history month, I think we should begin popularizing monsters from the African continent the same way European monsters are overpopularized. To that end, here's a list of some of the most famous folkloric figures from Africa!
Mmoatia
Origin: Ghana (Akan)
Creature it is not: Dwarf
(Singular: Aboatia) Mmoatia are a subclass of abosom (spirits in between Man and Creator) that live in the forests of Ghana. They are short, have curved noses, backwards feet, and a unique language made up of only whistling sounds. Whistling in the forest is a sure way to get their attention. According to legend, they are phenomenal herbalists that will sometimes share their knowledge with humans. When a person gets lost in the woods, they are said to have been taken by Mmoatia. Humans who come back after being taken will become incredible medicine men. In Ghana, Dust Devils are called "Mmoatia Mframa" (Wind of Mmoatia) because they are belived to be a portal to their world similar to how fairyrings are treated in Ireland.
Mmoatia are divided into three tribes: Black, White, and Red. Black Mmoatia are supposedly harmless, while White and Red ones are always up to some kind of mischief.
Adze
Origin: Ghana (Ewe)
Creature it is not: Vampire
In Ewe culture, the Adze is a type of demonic spirit associated with witchcraft. They take the form of a fire fly that, during the night, crawls inside human beings in order to posses them. People possesd by the Adze are said to be witches, who use the spirit to slowly drain the life force of people that they envy (Old witches target the young, Poor witches target the wealthy, enslaved witches target their masters as they should).
When targeting a person, the Adze will leave it's host human during the night and crawl into the house of the victim. When it's close, it will drain blood from the victim like a mosquito.
Werehyena
Origin: Pan-African
Creature it is not: Werewolf
Just like how there are Werewolf stories all over Europe, there are Werehyena stories all over Africa. Compared to werewolves, which are said to be men cursed to be monsters, Werehyenas are actually monsters that disguise themselves as humans only to eat it's friends during the night. The people most likely to be werehyenas are village outsiders and blacksmiths, who are associated with magic.
In Angola, there is a similar (but not the same) creature to the werehyena called the Kishi. It is literally a two-faced demon that has a handsome man's body and face in the front, and a hyena's face in the back. This creature lures unsuspecting women into relationships so that it may eat them. If the Kishi has any male children with it's prey, it teaches them the art of femicide.
Mami Wata
Origin: Pan-African
Creature it is not: Mermaid (ok, it kinda is a mermaid but I need to keep the joke running)
Even more wide-spread than the Werehyena, Mami Wata is a figure so popular that it is common for water spirits in Africa to be retroactively labeld as Mami Wata and take on her iconography.
The most famous picture of Mami Wata is actually a french painting of a black Caribbean snake charmer, who west africans later identified as Her. Mami Wata is worshipped as a powerful, female river spirit that controls the flow of the river, the rate at which fish can be caught, the money that men can make, and several other things important to humanity. She is also said to be a seductress, who sleeps with unsuspecting men only to later kill them for cheating on their wives. Indeed, Mami Wata is a defender of women and a slayer of sinful and abusive men.
In many places, it is common to believe that women who drown or go missing in bodies of water were taken by Mami Wata to be taught magic. The women who return become pristessess to her, while the women who never come back become new Mami Watas.
Impundulu
Origin: South Africa (Zulu)
Creature it is not: Thunderbird (no hate, Thunderbird gets constantly thrown into things where it shouldn't be by people who don't understand it. And those people tend to be not native)
Impundulu, or Lightning Bird (NOT THUNDER BIRD), is a person sized Hamerkop bird that has the power to control the weather and summon lightning. It is also creature of evil magic, allied with witches and it has a never ending hunger for blood. It is said to sometimes take the form of a handsom young men in order to seduce women (why dose that keep happening).
Impundulu are immortal, and the ones that serve as witch familiars are passed down in the family as the old master dies and the child becomes grown. The bird is immune to gunshots, stabbing, drowning, and poison. It's only weakness is fire.
#black history month#west african mythology#west african folklore#african fairy#african fantasy#fantasy#africanjujuism#dnd#d&d#mmoatia#adze#werehyena#kishi#mami wata#impundulu#blackblr
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“Pirates” vs. Pirates
So I’m currently reading The Republic of Pirates by Colin Woodard and it’s a fascinating history about the very small world of the Golden Age of Piracy. Apparently, all the famous pirates of the age—Samuel “Black Sam” Bellamy, Charles Vane, Henry Jennings, Benjamin Hornigold, and Edward “Blackbeard” Teach/Thatch—all knew each other. Their real-life stories are fascinating, truly worthy of a series all their own (Yes, I know Black Sails exists. No, its portrayals of these real historical figures according to its wiki are not historically accurate in the slightest—you don’t need to change anything to make their stories interesting).
We all “know,” cognitively, that real piracy is very different from the movies, but I started thinking of how exactly it was different, and trying to identify what my childhood fantasies of “piracy” actually were. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I never actually wanted to be a pirate—I wanted to be Jim Hawkins from Treasure Island.
I’ll explain (because that’s what we do on Tumblr).
Real piracy, from Woodard’s description, was basically getting mugged on a boat. The pirates would show up, maybe fire a cannon or two, but usually not even that—they’d sail up to you or find you gathering fresh water and fruit on a tropical beach, be bristling with weapons, point them at you and say, “Empty your pockets ships holds.” And the poor merchant vessels (disproportionately Spanish for historical geopolitical reasons) being targeted usually did what you’re supposed to do in a mugging—give up their wallet cargo and get away with their lives, and like most muggers the pirates were more than willing to let those people go, taking the money and running.
And whatever I had in mind when I thought of pirates, I wasn’t thinking about the nautical equivalent of a guy in a black leather jacket and beanie hiding in an alley and then drawing a knife saying, “Give me your wallet!” (Yes, that’s my image of a mugger—thankfully, I’ve never been mugged).
The most pirate-y pirate I’ve seen on-screen is Captain Jack Sparrow of Pirates of the Caribbean fame—he is actually portrayed doing sketchy things like picking pockets and stealing boats, and lying to/manipulating people for his own personal gain. But here’s the thing—he never mugs anyone. In fact, he only steals from an “innocent” person’s pocket once, when he steals the bribable dockmaster’s purse off his desk in the first movie. What Jack Sparrow actually does—what all the pirates spend most of their screen time doing in the PotC franchise—is hunting for Maguffins magic treasures. They’re not pirates—they’re treasure hunters. And according to the PotC wiki, this is true in the prequel books, too—all the stories are about treasure hunting, not mugging merchant vessels. Jack Sparrow was never a real pirate—he was and is an edgier, funnier Jim Hawkins, the 12-year-old main character of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
We shouldn’t be too surprised—Treasure Island is the Trope Codifier for pirate stories, and it’s all about, well, looking for treasure on a tropical island. No merchant vessels were harmed in the making of that story. In fact, there is only one ship—the Hispaniola—that appears in the story at all. So of course the big “pirate” movie franchise is going to portray “pirates” doing what “pirates” do in stories—looking for treasure.
Yeah, it’s sanitized and romaticized, but comparing the fiction to Woodard’s more historical book, an early-18th century treasure-hunting story really does have all the benefits of real piracy without the drawbacks: real piracy really was lucrative, and if a pirate wanted to quit while they were ahead and make some wise spending choices they could go from being a literal beggar to being upper middle-class literally overnight. Treasure-hunting gets you, as a character, the same rags-to-riches prize to drives the story, but without the inconvenience of, you know, shoving a flintlock pistol in anyone’s face (sometimes you have to for self-defense, but never to get the treasure itself). Plus, in a treasure-hunting story you get to be on a boat, wear cool/funny cloths, say “Arrrgh!” And hang out in the Bahamas, without the messiness of scurvy, weevil-infested ship’s biscuits, hurricanes, and the threat of getting arrested by the local governor and executed (unless the author decides to make any of those things a plot point. Authors are just mean like that). Also, the original owners of the treasure are never looking for it, unlike the historical European powers who considered the loss of a treasure galleon a Really Big Deal. And if you ever get into a fight, it’s always because someone else who wants the treasure too is saying “I’ll fight you for it”—in a certain twisted way, the violence in “pirate” stories is more like a sporting event than anything else, a competition between teams for a common prize. Even the “bad guys” of “pirate” stories aren’t thieves.
So do I fancy being a mugger and intimidating people to give up their wealth, even if I don’t actually kill anyone (many real pirates were surprisingly merciful to their victims)? Not really. I realize that as a kid (and, let’s be honest, we still dream of this every so often as an adult) I really just wanted to go on a pleasure cruise in the Bahamas in funny clothes, dig in the sand, and find a whole bunch of gold, silver, and jewels in a wooden chest. That’s the premise of Treasure Island and Pirates of the Caribbean. I don’t like imagining myself as Blackbeard or Sam Bellamy. I want to just be Jim Hawkins.
Thanks for reading—here’s a picture of my character Chris Carnovo, who started off both in-universe and in my imagination as a “pirate.”
#Pirate#pirates#piracy#golden age of piracy#the republic of pirates#Colin woodard#Pirate story#treasure island#jim hawkins#pirates of the carribean#captain jack sparrow#gotta have the Captain in there#Literary analysis#historical accuracy
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Let's talk about San Baltasar, the Wise King, Saint of Afroargentines.
I think it's extremely interesting how one of the biggest afrodiasporic cults native to Argentina is that of El Santo Negro (the Black Saint) St. Balthazar, the Wise King. Other syncretic saint cults make mention to african deities or saints with titles such as "The Queen of Rivers" or "The Queen of the Sea", making the deities involved easily identifiable, but this cult in particular is one of the most widespread across the black population of Argentina and yet the most elusive in regards to who may be behind the mask. At least, until you pay attention to the details.
The Church first introduced the cult of Catholic Figures and Saints such as San Baltasar (King Balthazar) or San Benito de Palermo (St. Benedict of Palermo, the Moor) as a way to control the enslaved population politically and culturally. Although their goal was to dissipate african religions and install catholicism among them instead, they underestimated black argentines: after much effort, the church allowed the enslaved faithful to organize socially and politically and perform dances, drumming and singing for the saints of their formed Cofradía (similar to a congregation, but including social and political structures within it, naming a king and queen or a president and other culturally and politically significant roles). Thanks to the passing down of african culture and customs through these organized societies and the syncretism within them, we can proudly say the church failed in their attempts. The african spirits are very much still an integral part of afroargentines' lives. Today, although it has spread across the country and beyond, the center of this cult is in it's origin, the capital city of Corrientes, Argentina, in a neighborhood called Cambá Cuá.
The cult to San Baltasar is clearly african in origin, although with indigenous (guaraní) influences, such as calling the saint Santo Cambá/Kambá (Black in guaraní language), calling his statues Cambára'angá (guaraní for Black Figure), and some dancers dressing up as indigenous figures like el pombero, among other things. Thus, it is an afroindigenous cult, developing amongst mixed descendants of african enslaved peoples and guaraní natives. The cult is also a local expression of the most african of customs: ancestral veneration. The festivities honor not only the Saint himself, but all the black ancestors before us who are present in pictures at the altar, and answer to the call of the drums. The color red, that covers the saint and adorns his followers, is the color of warriors and protection in African Traditional Religions. He's offered food and drink (such as wine and traditionally made sangría), and most importantly dance and drums. He is invoked and honored, along with the ancestors, through drumming and dancing, through La llamada a San Baltasar and Saludos de Tambores a los Santos Cambá (Calling Saint Balthazar and Drum Salutations to the Black Saints).
His festivities, held in Corrientes around Epiphany, from January 1st to the 6th, include dancing afroargentinean rhythms such as diverse forms of candombe and samba. Particularly, he was traditionally honored with a dance called bambula, a form of ring dance where women move in short and slow steps, barely lifting their feet, while men jump in the air, and where one singer sings a phrase that is then repeated or answered by the others present. This kind of dance is native to Congo and Angola, and widely practiced by enslaved people and their descendants in the Southern United States, the Caribbean, Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay. The music used to this day to petition favors, to invoke his spirit into his image and even dispel or call thunderstorms or other natural phenomena, is called charanda and includes drums, guitars and triangles. Just like in other afrodiasporic devotional and resistance dances, these dances involve Kings and Queens of the dance, a hierarchy of drummers including those called Master drummers, and a hierarchy of the drums themselves as Chico, Repique and Piano.
If you compare him to Xangó...
He carries a double-headed axe. He's often depicted wearing a crown. His colors are, surprisingly, also white and red, with gold accents. Also a King and a warrior, also associated with thunderstorms and fire, drums and dance. His followers also wear white and red beaded collares. Ringing any bells...?
Now, I am not saying they are the same Spirit, but there is an undeniable resemblance. You come to your own conclusions. It's kind of obvious that this afrodiasporic cult stems from either (a) a hidden, veiled cult to the orisha(s) or (b) a syncretic cult to african deities (not only orishas but maybe other african spirits too). There is, after all, strong ties not only to Yorubaland but also to Dahomey, Kongo, etc. Just in this instance, the spirit may resemble an orisha but the rhythms and dance are from kongo, so there is much more to it than just one or the other. There is a culture of resistance born from the union of Nations through music, faith and tradition.
Sources:
None of the images here belong to me: San Baltazar and festivities [1,2,3,4-6] and Xangó [1]
Festividad de San Baltasar : performances artístico-religiosas de la cofradía de la ciudad de Corrientes, by Cavalieri, Ana Belén, Universidad Nacional del Nordeste. Facultad de Artes, Diseño y Ciencias de la Cultura, 2018. Available for download at [Link]
San Baltazar, Historias de Corrientes at [Link]
The bamboula Lineage at [Link]
The Orishas, Indiana University at [Link]
#ATRs#afroargentina#afroargentines#afrolatine#afrolatinx#afrolatino#black saint#black saints#st balthazar#st. Balthazar#San Baltazar#Santería#shangó#xangó#santeria#african diaspora#african traditional religions#african diasporic religions#african diaspora religions#ADRs#san baltasar
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Pirate AU Pt.1
The air was salty and filled with the sounds of hushed crashing from the vast majestic blue depths.
A well sized ship coasted through the sea with ease, its richly colored dark brown body, adored with a light blue trim that ran along the rails, mast and wheel proved too flashy for the seas.
This was fact as the deck housed several noble and high class individuals, their casual sailing with disregard for the etiquette of the sea, and spirit of the great blue yonder.
The air was moist due to the recent rainstorm that had taken place only a day ago, this not meaning much to land locked folks, but for true people of the sea, you would know not to sail too far out after a big storm, because that was plundering time.
Ships that couldn't bare the storms ended up decorating the sea’s floor, and this was prime time for scavenging those who barely made it through.
A simple lookout scanned the seas from his perch atop the mast, his eye catching sight of a rather plain looking ship headed in their direction.
It was a simple light brown ship that had been coasting on the residual waves from the previous night's storm.
He focused in closer with his spyglass to get a better look, seeing a very rough looking crew scurrying around the unknown ship’s deck.
His scope scanned over the ship even more, eventually coming into view of a woman with hair and a scope of her own pointed right at his.
She pulled it away from her face and waved to the confused lookout before she made a “turnaround” gesture as she smirked.
His eyes widened in horror as he attempted to call out.
“Pir-” He barely managed to mutter as he felt two large arms grab him by the neck and cover his mouth.
He struggled to break free from the grip, turning his head just enough to see a tall, muscular and pretty attractive woman with a rather calm looking face wearing formal attire.
They had snuck on board before they even set sail, this realization passed through the young sailors mind as he began to let his body fall into a slumber.
Once he was safely out and on the ground, the muscular woman looked toward the ship and gave an all clear signal.
—---
The deck of the ship housed several wealthy and powerful individuals who spent this time mingling and relishing in their lavish and wasteful lifestyles.
Beside each bureaucrat was a personal attendant as they would call them, but their lack of shoes and patched together suits told another story.
Of course guards were aboard the ship, with few spread around the deck, but the most located at the captain's quarters.
Inside were people in high positions from all over the great isles and Caribbean, each coming up with new ways to control the major export trades, spices, livestock, slaves. just the essentials.
“If we expand here, get control of these passageways then we could export our stock in half of the time.”
“But that path belongs to-”
“I’m well aware of who it belongs to, but we have more than enough power and bodies to take over her little foothold.” A man who could be identified as a marine admiral by his decorated suit responded as he stomped the floor just a bit, followed by the sound of shifting feet under the floorboards.
“So long as I don't lose any of mine then I don't see a problem.” Another stated, uncaring.
—-----
As the sun began to set, a bright orange that stretched into red filled the sky, many of the passengers had their fill of wines, filling foods, and other delicacies unobtainable to common folks.
It wasn't until one rather inebriated man stumbled his way towards the side of the ship in a giggling fit as he slumped over the side.
The sea had become dark with only the red of the sky remaining, but that didn't stop the intoxicated man from striking a match and lighting up a very expensive cigar.
He looked over the edge while taking a large inhale of his , releasing the puff of smoke while dropping the still lit match over the edge into the black abyss below.
He watched as the orange flame fell, illuminating the side of the ship.
His eyes widened as the small flame revealed not only the sea but many small boats surrounding the larger ship, each boat containing rough looking individuals who all had hungry looking eyes whose appetite could only be satisfied with riches.
“P-pirates!!!” The man slurred as he stumbled across the main deck, the remaining passengers began muttering and panicking as more of the rough looking people began climbing over the sides of the ship, grabbing unsuspecting guards and pulling them overboard.
It only took a matter of minutes but the ship was now crawling with what any sea vessel feared: pirates!
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As They Covered The Sun With Swords They Had Bloodied, I Found Your Eyes Like A Worship Song of Old (Part 2)
A Tamnana centric spin-off to @ilyamatic's pirate au. Tamryn & the Olenevs belong to @valhallanrose.
You can find Part 1 here.
Series Summary: 16k words. Set during the first decades of the XVIII century, Aelius Anatole, or Inti Ankuwilla, as history might or might not remember him, meets a certain Tamryn Olenev when his family relocates from Poland to Venice. In meeting each other and falling for each other, the two of them will discover a kingdom of their own, where they can figure out what it is to exist despite all odds telling you not to.
Part 2: 6k words. After sharing a furtive kiss on a deserted alleyway in Venice, Anatole’s job catches up to them. With the promise of returning, Anatole sets off to the Caribbean and upon his return, he decides to face Tamryn’s parents before confessing his feelings to him. Meanwhile, Tamryn frets, prays and finds a strange form on solidarity in Milenko.
Content warnings: Minors DNI. This is a piece of historical fiction set in the early XVIII century, during the golden age of piracy. As such it may contain depictions, allusions and episodes of racism towards black and indigenous peoples, anti-semitism, islamophobia, and LGBTQ people, as well as legitimate aspects of colonial violence.
Footnotes can be found at the end of the piece if applicable. Check part 1 for the main references and background research used for this piece.
Late at night, Tamryn had been going over the same detail of his project over, and over again.
“Alright honey, I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” Evalina said.
Tamryn kept going over his project.
“Tamryn.”
His mother called his name again: “Tamryn.”
Only when she gently shook his shoulder, he realised she was talking to him.
Tamryn grew more and more distracted as days passed. Half agony, half hope, altogether dreading Anatole might regret what he did. He knew he had held his hand, he could still hear him promising he would come back but that wasn’t enough to calm his fears, especially when the fear of him changing his mind about him hid a fear much, much worse: that Anatole might not come back.
Tamryn hadn’t told his family what had happened between him and Anatole yet. Part of him wanted to, longing the familiar feeling of crying to his parents (as he had the honour to have good parents who understood him) and them comforting him about it. He could almost hear their voices telling him it would be just fine, he just had to be patient. For his own reasons he had opted not to say a thing yet, at least not to them.
His gut twisted at the idea it might end up in nothing, having a kiss under the golden light of the early evening to haunt him for the rest of his life. Tamryn didn’t know if he could forget that kiss, let alone the man who delivered it.
To no avail, he wondered often what Anatole must be doing. News of him was scarce. The Olenevs didn’t know a lot of details about what the Cassano did exactly. A House of accountants, some public servants, some scholars, musicians, artists, people of science, printers; at least on the outside. Eccentric as they were, they were good people. They also knew that was not all there was to them.
They helped people they knew as much, that’s how they have come to know them: another family that needed to make haste to leave Kraków, also for their own security and wellbeing, had been helped by the Cassano before. They knew their methods weren’t particularly straightforward, nor orthodox, but they got things done. Tamryn didn’t doubt Anatole was helping people, but ignorance wasn’t bliss, it was a torment.
The Cassano were also extremely private. During the five months Anatole was away, Tamryn learnt it was less due to mistrust (even if that was a considerable element) and more due to protection of their clients, closest friends, associates and collaborators.
Some of their clients were easy to locate and identify. The Cassano ran their business and lent their service with a public facade of acceptability and exceptional skill at plausible deniability. Plenty of people required help keeping account of their affairs for which they felt professional help was better than house servants.
Yet, Tamryn and his family had learnt that their most important clients had, for all effects and purposes, no names: they kept their identities with an iron grip. Even Anatole’s father, who liked to bounce ideas back and forth with Evalina on his own blueprints, never made explicit what they were for, if they were commissions or just silly drawings he indulged himself with. Nor did Anatole’s mother, Qhispi Sisa. She often talked about approaches to medicine with his father and Zelda, but now that Tamryn thought about it, she had never said what she used it for, nor who, beyond their usual house visits.
Tamryn had always missed Anatole when he was away, but at least the other times there had been letters. On this occasion there was none. Not even a note. He had tried to ask Amparo one day, when she came to see Zelda, only to be met with a gentle refusal to answer questions about her cousin, which differed from Amparo’s purposeful reluctance to explain herself.
Milenko was no different. Tamryn knew him and Anatole had been abroad together more than once during these last two years, so perhaps he would spare details about Anatole’s business. It wasn’t that Tamryn didn’t respect his privacy, it wasn’t that he didn’t understand Anatole not giving him information yet was a way to keep him safe (the thought that Anatole was taking care of him, no matter the distance, made him feel dizzy), but he just wanted something to hold onto. Some indication that he might be alright.
When he mustered the courage to ask him, Milenko knew what Tamryn would say before he even said it. “You’re in love. Nothing I say will ease your heart, Tamryn. You will worry anyway.”
“But you’ve been with him, while working.”
“Nothing that I say about myself in that regard will ease your heart either. Let it float away in the water. I like to think it carries my prayers so he is safe. There is life in water, Yhwh is the water.
“I know what it’s like when the heart misses the name spoken for it,” Milenko paused, taking just a little pity on him. He sighed. “Alright, it’s not news, precisely, but are you familiar with Rabbi Al-Harizi?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Suspected as much,” Milenko said with warmth and an audible smile. “Part of my family lived in Spain before we were driven away from it. My nono’s family went there all the way from Aksum and Ethiopia; but mi vava’s family was from the peninsula, but you know what happened there. As it may, Al-Harizi could have some verses which you might appreciate. Would you like to borrow the book so someone else might read it for you?”
“I don’t mind if you do”
Milenko thanked him, and read:
If the son of ‘Amram had seen the face of my beloved, his ringlets, and his gloriously beautiful face blushing whilst imbibing alcohol, he would not have written in his Torah, “…and with a man”(1)
Tamryn would feel his face heat up. “I don’t think that helps. At all.”
Milenko took his hands in his, laughing as he squeezed them. “Be thankful I’m not pulling out The Conference of Birds or any Attar at all.”
“You’re worse than Amparo.”
“Believe me I am not, but What do all seek so earnestly? 'Tis Love. / What do they whisper to each other? Love. / Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts. / In Love no longer "thou" and "I" exist, / For Self has passed away in the Beloved!” (2)
All he could do for Anatole was to include him in his prayers. So Tamryn prayed for him, for his safe return, for more time. That Anatole may come back and kiss him again, or if not, at least that they could talk about it. Every time he said his name Tamryn felt the ghost of Anatole’s lips against his own. He hoped that too was a prayer. A prayer crowned with the sentiment that anything was worth it if it was for love, like his father said.
He should’ve expected Zelda noticing the way he muttered Anatole’s name between his prayers.
“That’s the third time you mention him. Did something happen? You look more lost than usual even since he left.”
“Hey.”
“I know you care about him, I just want to make sure you’re alright, and you’re not keeping anything inside that dumb big heart of yours, when it should be said out loud.”
His mouth became a waterfall of words. He had never been good at keeping things from his family, but he had always been notoriously bad at keeping them from Zelda.
* * *
Somewhere in the Atlantic ocean, Decimo Lemione’s body sunk and rotted in the water, his skull shattered with several pistol shots.
Anatole didn’t think he ought to be pitied. Yes, the ocean was big, but he wouldn’t be alone: he would have half his family to make him company.
* * *
Andrico was late. Of course he was late. Anatole had no time to waste. He needed to find the papers from the Casa de Contratación and get the fuck out of there. Decimo might have been dead, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t still be ambushed.
He heard someone approach the room.
“Oh, you’re not who I’m expecting.”
Anatole hated when things got violent for no reason (“It was just a little trespassing,” he muttered to himself after the second, third guard had come to check why the first, then second, person who had come to check on this room wasn’t returning). He hated it as much as he hated being inconvenienced. Only the fourth guard recognised him, but he was dealt with before he finished saying his name.
“Very rude, I am trying to keep a semblance of privacy—” a fifth person came in. “Oh, where the fuck is Andrico.”
He showed up 15 minutes after the fifth, and hopefully last guard had been dealt with, coming into the room with Jean-Marc, his Quartermaster, when Anatole was finding something to clean his sword, Dawn Piercer, with.
Anatole shot him a murderous look. “Glad to see the Solanaise II is sailing again, glad to see you’re in one piece. Far less glad to see you’re fucking late, El-Saieh. I’ve been waiting here for forty-five minutes.”
“Forty-five,” he repeated, hissing through his teeth.
“What are you doing here? I’m supposed to meet— No. You’re my accountant?”
“For someone who had the audacity to be three-quarters of an hour late, you have no right to be that irritated.” Anatole turned to Jean-Marc, walking over a dead body to hug him. “Marco! You, however, I am glad to see.”
Jean-Marc whistled. “I always knew you’d be one to watch out for.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, but thank you.”
“So Zia Solange didn’t tell him?”
“She sure fucking didn’t.”
Anatole snorted, not even trying to hide how amused he was. Still, he was a professional, and the sooner he was done with this, the sooner he went over the Solanaise II’s accounts and routes, the sooner he could go back to Venice.
“Look, Andrico I know last time we saw each other we didn’t part on the best of terms, but this is different. You know it is. I am willing to set that aside for the sake of the contract, if that’s alright with you. My plan is to keep you alive for long enough, and I don’t think Solange asked for me to see your accounts only to piss you off.”
“Put what aside?” Drico asked, cocking his head to the side, in the same way Anatole’s dogs did. “I apologised for that! You’re the one who hasn’t accepted my apology for offering you friendship—”
Anatole sighed. “You’re worse than dealing with Christians.”
“Excuse me.”
Jean-Marc pinched the bridge of the nose. “Andrico, Anatole, the contract.”
“He called me worse than a Christian!”
“And I’m going to call you something even worse if you keep making me waste my time where we could be easily ambushed. Again.”
Andrico eyed the dead people, then Anatole. In many ways, before him stood someone he had known forever; in many ways, before him stood someone he had never met before. “You changed.”
“If you say so.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Andrico, the contract.”
He grabbed Anatole’s hand and shook it, despite feeling like somehow this would come back to bite him on the ass. “Deal.”
“Excellent! First of all, as your accountant,” Anatole said with something akin to murderous politeness, “next time you’re this late, or late in any unjustifiable manner whatsoever, I’ll feed you to the Mami Wata myself. Second of all, I found the papers from the Casa de Contratación and I have this,” Anatole showed them a signet ring. “It's only a matter of leaving it in the right place now and to get out of here. And thank all Gods-I-don’t-have-contempt-for that you brought Marco with you. I know you’re terrible with accounts when you’re in a sulky mood.”
“I’m not sulking.”
Jean-Marc groaned.
Once they were back at the Cassano’s safe-house, while Andrico was too busy proving him right by being taciturn and ill-tempered about his circumstances, Jean-Marc made conversation with Anatole. He told Anatole about his travels, and Anatole told him about his. The sooner he was done here, he had said, the quicker he could go back.
“So soon?”
“I left some, hm, business unfinished, and I want to be done with that before I come back in a more permanent fashion.”
“I see. With this business you mention, that is. Or alone?”
Anatole smiled at him and told him nothing.
* * *
It had been five months and a couple of weeks since he had last seen Tamryn, five months and a couple weeks since he had kissed him. Hadn’t it been because he wanted to wash his hair properly before he drove himself crazy and speak with his parents about what he was about to do, Anatole would’ve docked off in Venice and gone straight towards the Olenevs’ house.
His lips had haunted his every hour, as if the kiss itself had been as long as his exile. Yet, if the desire to see him again had pushed him forward, now that he was in the same place as him, his heart threatened to escape his chest through his mouth out of nerves alone.
What if he was angry at him for not writing? What if he had changed his mind? What if Evalina and Galen didn’t approve of him like this? Anatole thought they did, they both seemed to be both aware and protective of both Tamryn’s and Zelda’s choices in companions, as long as they were good for them.
It didn’t matter. All the reasons he had used to give himself hope and grit when he was away, all the beautiful things in nature, in his quarters, in the island, in people; all those beautiful details that he longed to show and tell Tamryn about were whisked away, as if they were trunks he had left on the ship and only now realised so.
The idea of being rejected made him physically ill. He knew his skin was intact, but he felt it crawl out of his body. Anatole hated this feeling. He hated how, despite feeling it all of his life, he still couldn’t get used to it, nor stop it, nor anticipate it. He had been learning, slowly, how to deal with it, but it made him overwhelmed and queasy.
The feeling itself had nothing to do with Tamryn and everything to do with Anatole’s mind. His mind has never known how to stop thinking, how to stop doing things, how to stop bouncing off the walls and digging his claws into certain things. For good or for evil.
He made a whining noise. His three dogs, three pomeranians he had “borrowed'' during one of his working seasons a couple of years ago named Duke, Zapa and Astrid, echoed it. His mapachitli tried to climb him, which Anatole had to stop by holding him in his arms, lest he damaged the fabric of his favourite suit.
Some of the people who had tried to capture Andrico (hired swords, privateers, bastards overall) when he was waiting for the latter had him in a miniscule pen. Before leaving, Anatole had released it, but it refused to go back to the wild, following Anatole instead. No matter how many times he tried to release it, the mapachitli came back.
The witty little thing even followed him to the ship. Anatole did the only thing he could think of: washing him, drying him, and taking care of it.
Now it was there, between his arms as Anatole was on the brink of a nervous breakdown. “I’m going to die.”
“No you’re not, Inti,” his father said as he kissed his brow.
“I am.”
“You are,” his mother said as she also gave him a kiss, “but not now. It will be alright, and we’ll be right behind you. Are you taking the dogs?”
“I think it’s more of a matter of the dogs not letting me get out of their sight.”
If it weren’t because his grit and determination were stronger than his nerves, he would’ve never made it out of the house. He looked at himself in the nearest mirror one last time: instead of his usual working attire of boots, fitted trousers with buttons to secure the waist-band, a shirt and perhaps a cravat that had been embroidered by his mother, he opted for one of his more formal suits. A fitted coat that reached his knees over a vest, a carefully crafted white shirt with lace details. While he still wore fitted trousers that reached his calves (mostly because he hated the feel of breeches’ clasps around his legs), he opted for dress shoes.
He pressed his coat against his skin, where the inner breast pocket should be. Right, he could do this.
He still wanted to vomit, but it was better to do things while his bones threatened to vibrate out of his flesh than not do them at all.
* * *
Evalina and Galen greeted Anatole in their foyer, exchanging pleasantries and asking him about his journey: if it had been good, if he was in good health, if the weather was agreeable for sea-travel and if his nondescript obligations had been alright.
As he did every time he stepped inside their home, Anatole left his cane —the one that had a stiletto rapier inside— by the door. The Olenevs already knew his dogs, the three of them trained enough to be decent guests and not to bark at Pomarańczowy, Evalina’s cat. The mapachitli had stayed back home. It was too small still to roam by the dogs, and in case of an emergency, Anatole needed to be able to manoeuvre a sword.
Sometimes he thought paranoia and overthinking would kill him, but they hadn’t yet. He supposed there was something auspicious about that.
Evalina and Galen had never seen him like this. He looked pale, despite clearly having acquired a slight tan that made his skin deeper and more freckles when oversea. He was shaking and spoke in circles, with a nervous verbosity they had never witnessed in him. They had heard him talk to his heart's content about things he was passionate about, but the way he spoke in the throes of academic passion was not the way he was speaking himself into a spiral now.
“If you came for Tamryn, I’m afraid he’s not home, but you’re always welcome to wait with us.”
“It’s not Tamryn who I want to see,” he said, fidgeting with his own hands. “I mean I do, I just mean right now, as in right-now-immediately.” He sat down, he sat up, he circled one of their sofas, he sat back in it by swinging his legs over the back of it. “I,” he paused, exhaling a nervous breath, “I need to speak to you both, as a matter of fact.”
Galen and Evalina exchanged a look between each other that, in itself, was an entire conversation, in the way only people who had been together for years could. Evalina offered him tea, hoping it will give him pause so he may speak freely, saying they will be happy to hear what he has to say.
Galen, however, offered him a light teasing smile. “Oh no,” he said, “I wonder what it is.”
Evalina whacked his arm, chastising him in Yiddish. Anatole didn’t speak the language very well yet, so he only understood something along the lines of “tea”, “offer”, and “tease him”.
In the time he was away he had prepared a speech in his head. He had even written it down, afraid his mind would consume itself with something else and he would forget it. He brought it out of one of his inner pockets, only to fold and unfold the parchment as he read none of its contents.
The only thing he managed to say before crying was “I”.
This is it, I have ruined all my chances for not being able to be better, as I know I ought to be, he thought, forgetting his hosts felt nothing but kindness for him. How could they not when he was so caring of their son.
Galen brought tea, which Anatole tried to drink but one of his dogs had made it to his lap.
“No, Astrid, get down.”
Impervious to her human, she tried to lick his tears.
“We’ve never asked, what kind of dogs are they?” Galen asked, offering him a reassuring smile, hoping speaking about something else would help him calm his nerves.
Anatole managed to wrangle Astrid down, but now he couldn’t stand up as all three of his dogs decided to perch themselves against his legs, trying to comfort him. He appreciated the change of topic as he, shakily, took the cup of tea.
“We know you only like spiced tea.”
“Thank you,” he sniffled. “I’m sorry. They’re pomeranians.”
Evalina and Galen both raised a curious, alert eyebrow. “You mean Polish spitzes? Those Pomeranians?”
“Yes.”
“How did you even manage to get a hand on three of them?”
“If I want to be completely honest, I stole them,” he laughed. Before his nerves could undermine him any further, he stopped himself from thinking the watery chuckle sounded pathetic. He was trying his best. He wasn’t pathetic. He was brave and strong, and he was around people whom he trusted.
With slow breaths, he calmed down somewhat and took a tiny sip of tea. “In truth, I don’t think certain types of people deserve good things… but I didn’t come here to talk about my job, or my political opinions, at least not just yet.”
At the same time as Galen told him he could take his time, Antole said: “I’m in love with Tamryn.”
Silence fell on the room.
“So tell him that?” Evalina said, tentatively. Anatole stared at her as if she had begun speaking in tongues.
“That’s not the point, though. I mean, I do plan to ask him to m—, rather, I mean, tell him, if that’s okay with you. Please do let me finish before I ruin the impression you have of me again. I want to ask him but I refuse to ask him before I talk to the two of you, no matter if I cry or if my voice shakes. As long as you allow me the audience I need to speak to you before I do that.
“I don’t think there’s more important people in this world, to Tamryn, than his family and his community. Even if I didn’t know Tamryn as I do, I would know how important community is for you, not because it is also important for me and the likes of me, but because I see it in Milenko and Zia Aurora and her siblings. The Tesfaye are nothing without their community.
“My job is dangerous, my job involves travelling at sea back and forth. I will tell Tamryn, but you must know first: my family does a lot of things, but our most important guild is not the ones we make public, but those which we don’t speak of. We administrate and protect several pirate communities. These pirate communities actively sabotage Imperial ships. It matters not the empire: what matters is this. Justice.
“Conquistadores take African peoples from their land and lives, in vile kidnapping as if they didn’t deserve their freedom. They take our lands and exploit our people to die in mines like Minas Gerais and Potosí and Nueva España, like we were nothing but things to be crushed under their ambition and their cruelty. Things to be re-educated, when what they mean is ‘eliminated’.
“We refuse to let that stand. I refuse to let that stand. This is not something I will stop doing and you have to know it because I do not love Tamryn to leave him here while I have a life away from him. I want him to occupy every waking thought I have and share with him every waking hour. I want to live with him and love him as if he were my husband. I know you suspect I rather entertain men, and everything I have seen in you makes me think you also know it about Tamryn.
“Not only that but I can tell you respect it, that you even protect it, instead of pushing him into a union with a woman that would’ve made him unhappy or unfulfilled, not because there was something wrong with the woman in question but because he did not like women. If I could, were I allowed to exist and love as a man and to marry other men, I would’ve come here today to ask your son’s hand in marriage, hoping toI propose to him and that he said to me: ‘yes’.
“But,” his voice shook again, yet he kept on going forward, “I cannot. Not because of lack of wanting, not for lack of the most profound love I have ever felt for someone. But despite all my fears, nerves, overthinking or doubts, I am yet to find something I allow these people, who think they know anything about people like us when they do not, to rule over my life. So I ask, because I love him more than I have ever loved any other man, and I plan to love him from this day forward for as long as he has me, as long as he has me.
“I cannot swear or promise this on the same grounds of your faith in your God, not because it’s a problem to me, but because you see me as I am. I am a half Quechua man, and I please ask you to understand I want no religion to claim me, because the one which could’ve was taken from me when my mother was severed from her own people. Perhaps even before.
“But I will do whatever I must that I’m either allowed or obliged to do under it as long as it is custom, so I can show you I truly do love your son. I know a bit, but I also know you do things differently from my Milan, but I am willing to learn him, just as I know he is willing to learn me.
“I can offer him protection, and as long as I’m able nothing will be lacking if he wants it, and we will visit if he wishes to come with me, and I will do everything in my power to keep him safe, because if nothing else convinces you, please take my word when I say I would never forgive myself if something happened to him because of me.
“I do not want to deny myself the chance that he may love me as I love him, because I had been doing that ever since I met him, and I love him too much to hide it.”
Somewhere mid speech he had begun petting Zapa’s fur in self-soothing motions. Now that he had said his piece, he was still nervous but what was done was done: he had spoken truthfully, and few things were as important to him as his own word. Now he waited, moments seeming longer than they were as Galen and Evalina shared another of their knowing looks.
Without words, Evalina asked Galen if there was something he wanted to say. Without words, he indicated to her that she should speak first.
She sat beside him, gently ushering Anatole’s dogs so she wouldn’t step on them by accident. Just as gently he took his hands and just as gently she spoke: “It is said in the shtetl that Elohim calls out the name of the one a boy is meant to marry upon his birth, and that to find the one that he has willed for us is one of the greatest fulfillments of the divine will.
“It is a bond meant to endure forever, it is our joy, it is our completion when we find the one decreed for us by heaven. If Elohim has called you for our son, sweet boy, if you are the one to make him happiest in this world and the next, then we will not interfere - we will celebrate you loudest of all.”
He must be hearing things. He surely must become nervous enough for his mind to become delirious, surely that must be it. Yet, Evalina cupped his face and kissed his brow like she did with her own children. A dog barked, all dogs barked as Galen had to widen his steps because they insisted on walking between his legs.
Galen squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “But you should be telling our son. You are going to tell our son, right?”
Reality caught up with him. They were giving him their blessing to tell Tamryn what he felt for him. If smiles could dazzle and momentarily blind, like the sun the eyes after stepping out of a tunnel did, Anatole’s smile would’ve dazzled Evalina and Galen into seeing spots.
He tried to speak but all he could do was smile.
Evalina squeezed his hands. “I assume he will, won’t you darling? If you’re still undecided, I have more to say to convince you. I am very persuasive.”
“She is.”
“But if you don’t, we will need to have a conversation.”
Anatole frowned as he tried to think. “Wait, did he tell you something?”
Evalina and Galen exchanged curious looks. “Should he have told us something?”
Anatole’s cheeks lit up with a blush that felt alien on his cheeks. With a laugh, Tamryn’s parents said they didn’t need to know.
* * *
Anatole’s heart stopped with the sound of the door opening. It remained suspended when it closed, frantically starting to beat again when Tamryn’s voice came through the hallway. That he was home, that Zelda would come back later because she had made way to the Cassano’s house, that the commission they had gotten was delivered with no problem. That he even helped one of their neighbours with a faucet that wouldn’t work.
Evalina and Galen smiled at Anatole, then called out to their son: “We’re in the drawing room.”
Anatole stood up, being unable to wait a minute longer, but Evalina ushered him to do so, whispering to him that it’ll be a nice surprise. In the foyer, Tamryn shuffled with his things, peeling layers of clothing and who knew what else. To him, it was another day of arriving home after running errands.
Anatole’s dogs weren’t as patient as their owner, three sets of paws announcing their way through the hallway, excitedly greeting Tamryn who greeted them just the same, in the most adorable cooing voice Anatole had ever heard.
“Why are you three paying us a visit? Are Vlad and Sisa at home?”
He was expecting his parents to reply to him, but it was someone else’s voice that reached him. A voice that felt like a dream or a memory, a voice that came with footsteps that stopped after a couple steps.
“No, no yet,” Anatole said. “They will later, but for now it’s just me.”
A sharp breath came out of Tamryn. He had been lingering around the docks, trying to get news of ships, but he must have gotten his information wrong because the sailors there told him the weather wasn’t in the best condition from timely arrivals. Tamryn had always liked the sounds of the waves against the shore, the sounds of birds flying up high —free and unrestrained— and the sounds of people who worked there going on with their daily jobs; but he wanted to think maybe the wind would carry news of his Anatole.
Not directly, of course, he knew as much. Anatole had been a ghost in the docks, his purpose hidden from official records or unwanted questions, but ships came carrying produce and people from the west all the time. He wanted to think that the auspicious news he heard was about him. Now he was here, close enough that all Tamryn needed to do was walk towards him.
Tamryn tried not to cry. He was unsuccessful.
“I’m sorry I didn’t write. There was a,” Anatole came closer to him, “a lead on a potential capture on Andrico, my Client. I didn’t want a letter to accidentally end in the wrong hands. Not when,” he was close enough to reach out to him now, “not when I would never forgive myself if harm came to you because of me.”
“What, what does that mean?”
“That I’m in love with you and if that’s agreeable to you, for as long as you’ll have me, I want to, I’d like to—”
Anatole couldn’t finish his sentence. Tamryn reached for him, holding him between his arms in the warmest, safest embrace Anatole had ever experienced. He held onto him as if he might disappear at any moment, lifting him and spinning him around in the tight hallway of his parents house.
“All I have wanted is for you to come back safe, and you’re here, you’re here.”
In their spinning Tamryn hit the wall with his back, making him tumble. He didn’t let go of Anatole, who managed to keep himself somewhat upright by freeing one of his arms from Tamryn’s hold and frantically trying to reach the opposite wall.
“Solnishko, are you alright?”
With eyes closed, he buried his face in Tamryn’s chest. He never wanted to leave it.
“I’ve never been better.”
* * *
FOOTNOTES
(1) This is the source used for the translation here. Al-Harizi was an Andalusian jew and if there is one thing you can trust them with, is the gayass medieval poetry, everyone say thank you Rabbi Al-Harizi. One of the works referenced in part 1 (A Rainbow Thread) speaks more of him.
(2) Attar of Nishapur, "Intoxicated by the Wine of Love" as translated by Margaret Smith.
Because I am not really writing Milan if Attar of Nishapur does not make an appearance.
#my writing#a worship song of old#jules' originals#aelius anatole#tamryn olenev#tamnana#milenko#zelda oleneva#the olenevs#nana having dogs began as an inside joke of him making fun of europeans by stealing their stuff and now i cannot picture him without several#dogs and his pet raccoon
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pride asks: 6 and 8 for raz + 20 for you? 🖤
thank you dani! 🖤
Raz (female, cis, lesbian)
6. How does your oc feel about labels? Theirs, or in general?
Do you know that scene in whichever Pirates of the Caribbean movie where Calypso gives Jack Sparrow a jar of dirt, and his reaction is kind of “why’d you give me a jar of dirt? is this magic dirt? Is it gonna help me?” And Calypso says, “oh, you don’t want it? Then give it back,” and Jack clutches it to his chest all “no! This is my jar of dirt!” and she says “then it helps.”
Raz feels kind of like that about labels. There is no actual magical property to labels, but if you find one (or several!) that clicks for you and makes something make sense, then it is absolutely okay to treasure it (nevermind that the comparison here completely breaks apart when you remember that that particular jar of dirt kind of did have magical properties because of what was buried inside of it…).
She also knows that her girlfriend is rather fond of being able to categorize things neatly to better understand them, so labels can be helpful.
8. Have they had struggles with their identity, be it due to internal or external reasons?
Raz is pretty comfortable in her identity as female and as a lesbian. In her early days of training as an Agent, I’m sure loads of folks of varying sexualities got shit for their presumed inability to seduce targets that weren’t of their preferred gender for romantic entanglements, but that was never a reason for her to doubt her identity as much as it was a reason to doubt her acting abilities. She can play with gender presentation or flirt with any gender as required for a job, but it’s not anything to do with her own identity, it’s just part of the job, and a mask that she can take off at the end of the day (or scrub off in the ‘fresher for a few hours if needed until she feels like herself again).
20. Have your ocs helped you in self discovery? How?
I’ve identified for a while now as an asexual lesbian, and I think that bleeds into several of my characters playing as extremely sapphic and not as inclined to fade-to-blacks. But I also like playing out other possibilities just to see what’s there.
I think mostly, playing with my little Barbies sometimes lets me explore some genderweird thoughts without having to think too hard about my own actual gender (I probably do identify somewhere not entirely female, but I’m usually comfortable being perceived as female, so it’s not a huge deal, and I get to explore gender through other people who only live in my head and an online game, so it works out).
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TMZ Discusses Lineage-Based Reparations for Black Americans in California with AB3121 Task Force Chair Kamilah Moore
The ancestors been watching & waiting for this for us – their children, their descendants of U.S. chattel slavery. By states starting with Cali is one thing, but a federal rollout needs to be in close proximity. Y’all not getting off that easy. Everyone flooded here because of the dollar our ancestors bodies generated through forced labor and priced as stock to create this country’s wealth and “bootstraps” people have been pulled up from. The Dream off of the backs of the enslaved Americans.
In 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said he was going down to Washington to get his check. Then they killed him.
Locking our Freedmen’s bank during the brief Reconstruction era. (Fuck you, Kamala. Get away from the damn bank.) Jim Crow. Burning and bombing our businesses. Redlining. White terrorism. Income disparity. The highest mortgages to us. The long list of our inventions out of enslavement denied the right to be patented by our ancestors. Just taken. Where the fuck is the straps for the boots people be talking about?
We’ve had 15 million acres of land stolen and left with damn near 1 million. (I can’t wait until y’all uncover the paperwork of y’all heirs property and/or the land your people were ran off from before heading west or north during the Great Migration for what they thought was “safety,” and now somebody or a corporation is occupying your said land 👀. Chile, getcho shit.)
What does reparations look like for Black Americans? We don’t want no programs. No grants. No scholarships. No bullshit. Just cut the check like it's been done for every other ethnic groups in this country or who’ve oddly received redress from this country at the hands of another country 🥴 without a problem, mumble or pushback.
"How much," especially annually per person, is only the business of those instructed to analyze the correct value amount for centuries deep repair & rebuilding and those whose accounts it will go into based on lineage. Stop pocket watching.
Also we need to be reclassified, but this time on our own terms and by which we agree to for fucking once. It’s time. African-American is an immigrant ethnicity, which Black Americans who are tied to this land have never been. I don’t understand why that’s so confusing for some, but I understand why Kamilah is using it: we don’t currently have another federally recognized name except for Black and we know how that goes. I’m convinced Jesse coon Jackson gave us that reclassification (African-American) on his own accord in the 1970s so we could appear to be untied to this land by ethnic name and eventually be invisible by Africans who rightfully identify with African-American or those who racially identify as Black but have a differing ethnicity.
Obama abolished Negro in law on his own accord, which is the given name on our people’s paperwork, kicked off in full during the reclassification of American Indians to Negro before the $5 Indian Dawes Rolls, which is a whole ‘nother rabbit hole story. The copper colored folks. (The Church of Latter Day Saints needs to release all those kept records. We know who’s been lying. Just show it.)
Jesse, Obama and everyone else knew what we were always heading to: Reparations. People who are not racially Black feeling a way is no surprise when their dream is to see us as a permanent underclass that they can latch onto to fight their battles, reap from or head into poverty, which has been projected to be zero by 2053 unless redress. Not happening.
But people who are racially Black feeling a way ain’t a damn shock either. That’s what they were positioned to do whether those who run for office or those who’ve been appointed as public figures, no matter African, Caribbean or (Pan-African - “it should be for everyone Black” or coon ass - “reparations is stupid and divisive” like Ben Carson) Black American.
Have a fucking seat. Shit 😂.
The lies just to undermine us or latch on. Cut the fucking cord. Damn lol. In the past, we’ve included others and even muled for them to our own detriment without reciprocation. It’s lineage-based not race-based. I just can’t fathom how anyone can immigrate to a country headed by incoming white people and the descendants of colonizers who took the position of the long list of colonizers, experience race-based harm because they share our skin color, then continue to stay here at their own will in hopes to receive redress when they hear long-awaited “reparations” that were paused for people who share their skin color is on the way. Like...It ain’t clicking. Bitch, I could never. It’s beyond disrespectful and thievery again. Like shit..
Black Americans can literally trace our lineage under 30 minutes to the 1870 census, unless there were certain cases like adoption, for one example. That’s why there’s going to be genealogists aboard to help those who need assistance in looking through the United States’ heavily detailed and kept records dating back to the 1500s. It’s easy. On one line alone, I’m in the damn mid-1400s going into Europe 🥴. Black to Colored to Negro to Mulatto to former American Indian birth names and tribes to Europe, per this paperwork. You do the math.
Like I’ve said before, the U.S. keeps a receipt on everything and everyone who’s voluntarily immigrated here, they’ve assigned as enslavers or they’re purchased for forced labor. We know.
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Sea Legs
Ignorance is the parent of fear. - Moby Dick
Spencer thought El Nacho was a stupid name for an unsub, but the media did what it liked. The killer left paint chips with threatening color names as a warning to rival drug cartels. Some news writer had missed the 'paint' part of paint chips, however, and started calling him El Nacho. Unfortunately, the name stuck. He was on the FBI's top ten most wanted list, though, so now the BAU had to identify and catch someone named 'El Nacho.'
The guy wasn't even Mexican, he was from South America. Spencer had heard Garcia grumbling about it when he'd gone to ask her about the printer. Something about "idiot news reporters" and "ignorant racists," and Spencer had decided he'd rather deal with the printer alone.
"We've had an update on the 'El Nacho' killer," Garcia announced to the team as the six of them settled in the main conference room. She rolled her eyes. "Even I can't make a pun about it, it's so bad already." She took a deep breath and drew herself up straight, even though standing at attention like that really clashed with her bright pink heels. "But I will valiantly struggle onward nonetheless."
"Back to this guy?" Morgan groaned and ran a hand over his head as if he was looking for hair longer than his crew cut. "The media crazy after our first consultation wasn't bad enough?"
"If there's an update, why no photos? Did you lose the clicker?" Rossi asked. His antique, square signet* ring clicked against the table as he picked up the file in front of him.
"The update is not a new murder, fortunately," Hotch said, taking command of the briefing. "We recently got fresh intel on the unsub's location." Hotch nodded to Garcia for her to continue the case presentation. Spencer sat up a bit straighter in his seat.
"We know that South American drug cartels are looking to increase their sales in the southeastern US," Garcia continued, "and they're not afraid to push out local suppliers to do it. From the efforts of sexy hacker types like myself, we found a connection. Activity seems to increase in the winter and spring, but slows down during summer and fall. The murders line up with this timing too, more specifically with arrival dates from certain cruise lines. We think the unsub is using the cruise line routes to smuggle his product, like an evil, old fashioned pirate of the Caribbean." She chuckled at her own joke. "Get it? They're Pirates of the..."
"Garcia." Hotch gave her a look.
"Right, yes sir." Garcia cleared her throat. "Based on timing and status rewards for cruises in that area, we believe this man is the unsub."
She turned and clicked to a picture of a refined South American man. Spencer glanced over the unsub's tanned skin, sharp jawline, and the small scar barely visible under his chin, memorizing the man's features. He had what looked like a pretty basic, short haircut, though Spencer assumed it was actually very expensive. He turned back to Garcia.
"Thiago Francisco, 37 years old." Garcia clicked forward again, bringing up files next to the photo. "He has a juvenile record, including assault and possession charges, but even I can't find anything since he became an adult. He's very careful, does everything through intermediaries."
"Since the next shipment is the first to a new distributor, we think he'll want to oversee it personally," Hotch said. "Unfortunately, this is all circumstantial. We need evidence that Francisco is not only smuggling drugs into the US, but also murdering his competition. Our preliminary profile says Francisco kills them personally, since all the murders seem to have been committed by the same person, but we need to be sure it's not someone under him. We know which cruise Francisco will be on, but what we don't know is how many people he will bring with him, or who they are."
"Oh, I think I'm going to like this part," Prentiss said. Her grin matched JJ's, making the two women look like twins, despite Emily's black hair and JJ's long blonde ponytail.
Hotch ignored the interruption. "Our team will join the cruise undercover, Rossi and JJ as guests and the rest of us as staff, and profile who is and is not working with Francisco. We will find the evidence we need to convict him of both the murders and smuggling drugs, and then we'll arrest him and his men."
"Nice!" Prentiss high fived JJ. "Roommates? This is going to be an epic Girls' Night!" Her face fell. "Wait, what about Garcia?"
Hotch smiled slightly. "Garcia is going too. Cell service will be touch and go, and we need her to monitor all ship communications. We intercepted this information just in time, since Francisco has just made a last minute reservation for a Caribbean cruise leaving from Fort Lauderdale. The ship leaves in three days, and we'll need every second of that time to familiarize ourselves with the ship and our covers."
"A case on a Caribbean cruise? Crystal clear beaches, tropical drinks, and beautiful women? Man, I may never leave!" Morgan said, grinning.
Spencer just felt nervous. He'd never been on a boat before, not even a ferry to cross the Potomac, so a cruise ship would probably feel very overwhelming. No matter how big the ship was, he'd still be stuck in the middle of the ocean with hundreds, maybe thousands of strangers. And with all of the unavoidably close contact, there would definitely be diseases spreading around. He didn't have time to research South American drug cartels AND cruise line culture, and, unfortunately, the former was a higher priority. Morgan teased him for his habit of overpacking his go bag, just to be prepared of course, but Spencer had a feeling he still wouldn't be prepared for a cruise.
"Wheels up in ten," Hotch finished, dismissing the team.
#its the same as the link i just posted#but for the lazy people who don't click on links :)#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds cruise au#spencer reid#spencer reid whump#whump#fainting#eventual sickfic#writing
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Embroidery- Appliqué
Today, we experimented with more embroidery, to be more specific we practiced Applique and reverse Applique.
The plan today was to add photos or work from
past workshops and layer them with other materials that could still relate to my narrative and see what we could produce.
Firstly, I chose simple images to embroider into in order to get a feel for how this could work on a larger scale. This also gave me some time to develop ideas.
In this picture above is a photo I took in St Kitts where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Caribbean Sea. I chose this image as I thought it was the perfect representation of my story. The metaphor the picture emits is the fact that the two seas, portraying my two communities and cultural backgrounds, meet in the middle, allowing me to embark on my own journey, conveyed by the land and pathway through.
I began to embroider around the main aspects of the photo to create a black outline on the black. The next process was to rip away some of the image in order for you to only see the material behind it.
Lastly, with this image, I began to create a border for my photo
to experiment with the zig-zag effect which did much to ameliorate the image.
This is another image of me and my dad's side of the
family. I made an effort to outline our figures in depth so that on the opposing side you could identify the people. We also used multiple
layers which is called Applique. I thought about cutting away the layers where I am in the photo because I layered the photo with white and black material beneath to relate back to the black and white in me so cutting away parts of both layers left a rigged white and black space almost as though I am the odd one out.
I was thoroughly pleased with this process and I'm glad I tried it out, it is definitely something I will engage with more in my other sessions as I'm sure there are many more pieces I could venture into and revamp. I think the only struggle I had with this was trying to free-hand stitch and move the material in the right direction. For some reason it was tricky but with more practice, I'm sure I'll improve.
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Un vampiro para dos [A Vampire for Two, 1965] review: as so often happens, I stumbled across this film on the Internet, and was surprised I’d never heard of it before. A vampire comedy with 3 of Spanish cinema’s top stars of the period? Genial!
As it develops, Un vampiro para dos is quite entertaining but oddly structured. Vampire Baron de Rosenthal* (Fernando Fernán Gómez) doesn’t appear until the 37-minute mark of this 81-minute film. Literally the first 45% of the film deals with married couple Pablo and Luisita in Spain and their subsequent emigration to Germany. Then the latter half of the film is essentially non-stop vampire-related slapstick.
*[nothing particular is made of it, but his name suggests Rosenthal may be a Jewish vampire, preceding the one in Roman Polanski’s Fearless Vampire Killers (aka Dance of the Vampires). Luisita wears a crucifix around her neck—sometimes, it comes and goes--which doesn’t seem to affect Rosenthal or the other vampires, but they are repelled by garlic.]
Pablo and Luisita both work in the Madrid metro system, but on diametrically-opposed shifts, thus they’ve been able to spend no quality time together during their year-old marriage [Pablo’s two additional jobs—night watchman on a construction site, and fútbol referee—don’t help this.] A friend has written to them extolling the benefits of working in Germany as gastarbeiters, and they finally decide to go. After a long sequence showing their airline journey, the couple arrives in Düsseldorf only to discover their friend has returned to Spain. A helpful clerk finds them employment as domestic servants in Baron Rosenthal’s employ.
The usual Dracula-inspired shenanigans occur: at first no one will take them to his remote mansion until a Condor Legion veteran (he’s also a veteran of the Afrika Corps “with Rommel,” the Battle of Stalingrad, and a former “prisoner of Stalin’s in Siberia” – so “this isn’t worse than that”) agrees to take them part of the way. They subsequently transfer to a horse-drawn coach driven by Wolf, who—as in Dracula—drops them off at the Baron’s castle then reappears to open the front door! [Wolf literally turns into a wolf (well, a German shepherd) from time to time.] Rosenthal—who speaks good Spanish as a result of serving with Sir Francis Drake in the Caribbean in the 16th century—appreciates sangría and Luisita’s cooking, unaware of her predilection for garlic. Having no success chatting up potential victims in bars, Rosenthal purchases blood plasma from a pharmacy to drink. Pablo suspects something is odd about their new boss—“he looks like…Drácula!”
However, Rosenthal thinks Pablo and Luisita are “too thin” to supply him with sufficient Spanish blood, and the trio gets along famously, drinking and singing. An informer (a bat who turns into a human vampire long enough to make one phone call, is identified as the military attaché at the Rosenthal castle, then is never seen again) calls Nosferata, Rosenthal’s sister (?) in England. Worried about the Baron’s apparent weakness, Nosferata and her vampire women travel to Germany. After some running around, Pablo, Luisita, and Wolf flee in the horse-drawn carriage, pursued by Rosenthal in bat form. The carriage soars into the air (unimaginatively via back-projection), finally landing at the Spanish border. Rosenthal changes the traitorous Wolf into a wolf, and then into a tiny dog. However, the vampire's hypnotic/magic spell is (apparently) reflected back at him by the shiny leather cap of a Guardia Civil, and Rosenthal bursts into flames, runs away, and plunges off a bridge into a river.
Un vampiro para dos concludes with Pablo and Luisita poolside in Southern California (a charred black shape in a fishbowl is apparently the remains of the Baron). Wolf, the talking tiny dog, has become a movie star. Pablo turns down an offer from MGM, but when Carlo Ponti calls and says Sophia Loren wants to co-star with the dog, Wolf says “Sophia Loren?! I’ll do it for free!”
As mentioned earlier, the film is split into two distinct sections, and neither one is paced particularly well. The first half has its amusing scenes—and some which are actually rather touching—but the sequence of Pablo as a fútbol referee who’s pursued through the streets of Madrid by irate players, goes on far too long and doesn’t seem especially relevant (except that it is the final straw that convinces them to move to Germany). The trip to Germany scenes are also prolonged (although it is surprising to note that the production actually went on location to Germany) and not really funny. The vampire section has very little plot, and is also confusing. Rosenthal already has one servant (Wolf), and apparently only wants Pablo and Luisita for their warm Spanish blood, but this idea is discarded almost immediately. The existence and appearance of Nosferata and her vampire women comes completely out of left field; this leads to a bit of running around in the castle, then the vampires go back to their coffins when day breaks. Wolf, Pablo and Luisita decide to stake them all but procrastinate too long, the vampires wake up, and then there’s the long chase sequence to the conclusion.
Un vampiro para dos is basically a four-character film: Pablo, Luisita, Baron de Rosenthal, and Wolf. The first 30 minutes focuses on José Luis López Vázquez, but the second half of the film is fairly evenly balanced in terms of screen time and “business.” Gracita Morales—she of the distinctively cartoonish voice—and López Vázquez made nearly 40 films together, frequently but not always as co-stars. Fernando Fernán Gómez was a director as well as one of the most popular Spanish actors from the 1940s through the 2000s, and had previously directed Morales and López Vázquez in the comedy Los Palomos (1964).
Pedro Lazaga’s direction is quite interesting. The film opens with a POV, subjective-camera visit to the Madrid subway, as various passengers chat among themselves and complain when the camera bumps into them. The rest of the film is somewhat more conventional, but Lazaga’s camera is extremely mobile and the camera angles are stylish. There are several surprising practical effects: at the 40-minute mark, Rosenthal leaves for a night out, leaping from an upper window and gliding (via nice wire-work) into the night. There’s also the “fire gag” at the Spanish border, which is quite well-executed. The vampire bat puppet is deliberately comedic and unrealistic in design, but is effective enough, aside from the visible wires. It might be noted that both Fernando Fernán Gómez and Trini Alonso (as Nosferata) wear prosthetic fangs in some scenes. Production values are fine: as noted, location shooting was done in Madrid and Germany, and the sets (if they were sets) such as the Baron’s castle are effective and impressive.
Not a classic, nor even a hilarious horror-movie spoof, Un vampiro para dos is nonetheless interesting and moderately entertaining due to the performers, the directorial style, and some fascinating historical views of Madrid (and, to a lesser extent, Germany) in the mid-1960s.
Un vampiro para dos [A Vampire for Two] (Belmar Producciones Cinematográficas, 1965) Director: Pedro Lazaga; Screenplay: José María Palacio, Pedro Lazaga: Photo: Eloy Mella; Music: Antón Ga[rcía] Abril; Prod Chief: José María Rodríguez; Asst Dir: Francisco Illera; Film Ed: Alfonso Santacana; Art Dir: Martín Cerolo; Second Cam Op: Javier Pérez; Makeup: Mariano García; Sound Tech: Enrique Molinero
Cast: Gracita Morales (Luisita), José Luis López Vázquez (Pablo), Fernando Fernán Gómez (Barón de Rosenthal), Trini Alonso (Nosferata), Goyo Lebrero (Wolf), José Orjas (don Tomás), Adriano Domínguez (Casa de España employee), Manuel Arbó (neighbour), José Villasante (cab driver), Guillermo Méndez (first man in Metro), Ángel Menéndez (porter), Ana Carvajal (girl in Metro), Claudia Gravy (vampire woman), Aníbal Vela (Juan), Rafael Alcántara (Guardia civil), Sultán (dog), Inocencio Barbán (fan in Metro), Rafael Hernández (man in Metro 2), Carmen Porcel (cleaning lady), Matías Prats (radio announcer),José Luis Zalde (Mariano)
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Free Tuition is Good for Society
Post-secondary education, in 2023, has become more valuable than before. However, with rising tuition, living expenses, and inflation it has become harder to afford an education and not create debt.
According to Statistics Canada, 40% of students owe debt upon graduation. From the year 2000-2015, while the percentage of graduates with debt remained steady, inflation has caused the average amount of debt owed to climb an average of $3,000 per student over the course of these fifteen years (Statistics Canada, 2019).
Post-secondary education should be tuition-free as student debt not only has adverse effects on families but also leads students to question the value of their education, while free tuition promotes diversity, equity, and inclusion, and relieves students of financial stress during a critical period in their lives. Overall, our new generation of workers need the proper education to lead our workforce as our older generations retire.
In 2023, we are in the midst of a student debt crisis spanning across North America. It is important to create a system in which we can create a safe environment for our future workers to get an education while avoiding a massive financial burden. Especially with rising inflation.
The NYU School of Medicine quickly witnessed the positive influence which free tuition brought to their school community. NYU School of Medicine saw an increase in not only total applicants (47% increase), but an increase in applicants self-identifying as African American, black or Afro-Caribbean (142% increase).
While the movement towards free tuition has its supporters, it has an equal number of skeptics who do not believe a system that supports free tuition will work. I believe it's important to create an easier flow for our future generations to be prepared for coming into the workplace.
With free tuition, our society benefits from the effects of having an educated community. Our society becomes more diverse, and more equal in opportunity depending on your financial group.
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Chapter 6 Field Work
Due Oct 2
For this assignment you will examine your own family's history and its relationship to ethnicity and nationalism. How long has your family lived in this country? Where did they come from? Has your family embraced American Nationalism? If some of your family have migrated from other parts of the world, how do they integrate their American identity with their ethnic identity? The best sources of information for this exercise will be your own family members. Do not hesitate to conduct interviews.
My family has lived in this country for a little over 40 years now. My grandmother moved from Jamaica with my grandfather, my mother and my auntie. My mother and aunt were young at the time and had to adapt to the new lifestyle. My family has embraced American Nationalism but if you ask them where they are from the will not hesitate to describe and tell you about their Jamaican background. I also have family that migrated from Britain and also from Trinidad. They have all had to adapt to a American lifestyle that is very different from back home for them because where they are from life was mainly formed around manual labor and family. In Jamaica they do not identify themselves as dark skin, brown skin, or light skin. Where they are from you are either white or black no matter your shade. You are not discriminated against because you are constantly around people that look like you. There is very little discrimination even though there are people like Asian Jamaicans, Irish Jamaicans, British Jamaicans, etc. You are not judge by what you look like you are judge by your abilities. Coming to America was their first time hearing about different shades of black people and grouping them into different categories.
Edward Constantine Hudson
This is my Great Great Great Grandfather. He recruited men in the Caribbean Islands to work on the cane farms in Cuba , Honduras , and Nicaragua . He also owned 2 Haberdashery stores in Cuba and Banbury Lindstead Jamaica . His wife Jane Ann was a seamstress specializing in baby clothes and shrouds. After his death, she had a stroke and was unable to work again.
This is a photo of my Grandfather Aubrey Henry
This is my mothers father who died when she was only 13 years old. This made my grandmother, mother, and aunt have to be more independent.
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on Looking for blackness: Considerations of a researcher's paradox
Bressey melds narratives, historical geographies, and photography to foster an understanding of Black Briton women during the Victorian ages. Revealed in this article are her own feelings about the construction of racial categorization, both contemporary and during the Victorian era, and whether her quest of Black identity (“looking for blackness”) is unintentionally reinforcing the same late 1800s racial framing she intended to deconstruct. The questions that arise from her research ultimately become central to the article, as they overtake the study.
As noted within previous summaries of texts from the Black geographies, race is often a missing, and missed, element within geographic study. Bressey chooses to focus on this “missing” element through exploring the thread of Black Briton identity. The Black geographies is overwhelmingly North American-centric, as most, if not all, of its seminal authors are African American whose research involves not only the imaginaries of a displaced African diaspora in North and South America, but also the creation of indigenous Black cultures in the New World. England, as a site, is an outlier in this discipline for despite its role in the Transatlantic Slave Trade, they exported more slaves than they imported. The dominant Black ethnicities that live in England are from their present and former colonies: West Indian (noticeably Jamaican) and West African (Nigerian).
Bressey focuses on the formation, and reinforcement, of cultural identity through the manufacturing of shared memories. Photography is her central unit of analysis, both as a material and as a document. She focuses on photographs of Black British women in Victorian London and narrows this focus to Black Briton women living in prisons, asylums, and children’s homes. The Black Briton underclass. Through this research method, she asks the following questions:
How would the biographies of prisoners and the ‘socially excluded’ help an examination of the place of black people in London’s history, and how would they be received today?
How helpful would the (re)discovery of a black underclass be to the black community living in London now?
How could the detailing of an underclass become an extra tool for those challenging racism, rather than providing examples that could reinforce prejudice?
Through these questions is an interest in exploring “counter-memories”. Counter-memories are described by bell hooks as, “A way to understand and change the present by placing it in a new relation to the past” following Foucault’s argument of memories being “a site of resistance.” The reason behind exploring counter-memories is due to Victorian-era archives that, despite being known for its thorough documentation of people’s lives, specifically did not record skin color or ethnicity. Without these markers of identity, as socially constructed as they are, how does Black Briton identity and British cultural identity atone for these losses?
Photographs and the re-treading of historical archives have become a tool of resistance as a process of reclamation. Because Victorian archives did not record skin color or ethnicity, Bressey and other historical geographers can only rely on birth (and death) certificates, but as she notes being from the Caribbean and Africa does not necessarily mean that someone identifies as Black. Still, combing through archives of photos, particularly photos of working class peoples, helps to define who was truly present during Victorian London, even if attributes of their race weren’t recorded. Photographs allow a closer look into these gaps.
However, during her research, Bressey encounters complicating factors:
Photography as a medium
Racial identity as subversion or… reinforcement?
What defines Blackness?
Arguably, the three factors above are the most intriguing aspects of the article, for I originally went into this with an interest in how she uses visual methods in qualitative research. My previous interactions in the Black Geographies so far have largely either established theory or provide exhaustive literature reviews.
Photography as a medium - Photography, in general, produces a host of feelings within someone, depending on their culture and the images within them tell just a fraction of a story. Additionally, as technology has progressed, photography has become a part of the surveillance state. Photographs also allow for stories to be superimposed onto them, eventually becoming fact because images cannot dispute the viewer’s fictive imagination. Levine (1989) suggests that photographs should be read as “provocative and suggestive rather than definitive.” As Bressey progresses in her usage of photographs, she notes that even after encountering photographs of Black women in the historical archives, she still did not manage to learn anything more about them other than what was presented (in the photo) and what was written down.
Racial identity as subversion or… reinforcement? - Bressey notes early on that a researcher’s own involvement in life stories and archives is a personal one, and that what is uncovered will affect them (p. 217). In the “Presenting Blackness” section of the article, Bressey introduces a second method of data collection: focus groups. The focus groups consisted of undergraduate students tasked with interacting with her research. The students were almost all Black women. She tasked the students with racially categorizing the women in the photos, and the students shared they thought the women were Black. Bressey notes that their categorization of the women was based upon physical features. However, the students believed the women led very different lives than they did, at the time of the article. So, shared features, different histories. The students’ manner of categorization forced Bressey to think, “I wondered how far we could really say we have come in the process of dismantling the boundaries of race and the racism that derives power from them.” (p. 220)
What defines Blackness? - Bressey is left with an existential conundrum. Through her quest to find Blackness in Victorian era Britain, she is caught in the loop of categorizing Blackness through physical features assigned to Black people. In her usage of photographs, where she assigns Blackness to through physical features, she’s forced to confront her hidden danger within method of choice. Stating, “The use of photographs in this project means that a research project with anti-racist ideals at its heart is bolstered by evidence that would not seem entirely out of place in the ‘racist’ world of Victorian phrenology and physiognomy.” Furthermore, she shares that her use of photography, “In this methodology reinforce the artificially fixed attributes of race, it also reinforces colonial and imperial discourse in what is supposed to be a body of research attempting directly to contradict these claims.”
Right now, I feel an element of distress both from this conclusion and my own concept of race. On one hand, yes, I do use physical features to assess if someone else is Black, but I also know features only go so far. There are cultural nuances that help to form Black identity but they’re also constrained by political borders (though possibly less so due to the pace of technology). And what I may see in someone may not be the same for another Black person due diversity of a place. Slash and Cardi B come to mind. Slash having an African American mother is usually a surprise to the unknown because, in my experience, folks don’t “see” it. I saw it; didn’t understand why others couldn’t. Whereas Cardi B’s Blackness is debated because is an Afro-Latina (exhausting) Anyway.
Assigning Blackness through physical features is/can be (?) racist/a form of cultural solidarity/complicated.
In conclusion: This journey meant to “illustrate the importance of photographs for the study of black historical geography in Britain in two main ways” (p. 224):
“It emphasises that such photographs provide access to archives, and reveal pathways to the stories of black people that it would otherwise be very difficult, if not impossible, to trace.”
“Secondly, it argues that the images that are collected are an immediate and dramatic way of subverting the traditional narratives of British history.”
While Bressey’s research questions and methods conjured up more questions than answers, where she lands in her usage of photographs as a method for uncovering Black Briton history is stating, “…While their lives outside the institutions in which I found them remain unknown, they will perhaps be awarded little dignity, and a limited sense of place.” (p. 225). A sense of place that is missing in the geographies.
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𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓘'𝓶 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮
mrjohndoe69
Untitled