#so like maybe this was at anne's encouragement or maybe he believed that and resented her for that but....... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

swishandflickwit · 6 years

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Shirbert — promise me (no promises) 1/1

Summary: Maybe love didn’t always mean the adventure was in far off places, but was found within the four walls of her classroom; where a rival, in actuality, was not the villain but a prince in disguise?

Maybe love wasn’t always the stuff of legends. What if it was the quiet things? The constance? Love was steady, she realized. It was study sessions and long walks, an ashen gaze and an encouraging smile in a sea of faces that expected her to fail.

It was standing up for what and who you believed in, going after them when they walked away and promising to want them for all time.

Words: 6.8k

Ratings: General Audiences

Also on: ff.net | AO3

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Anne Shirley-Cuthbert was in a rage.

How dare he, she seethed, that vile, repulsive, odious, witless pissant!

Oh, how Marilla would despair at her thoughts!

(Rather, Marilla would equally rage at her debasing introspection, as she would later realize once she had calmed herself)

However, in that moment, Anne thought no one in Canada—in all the world even—could neither rival nor temper her resentment. Fury rolled off her and stained her skin an angry red to match her hair. She imagined steam leaking from her pores as her blood curdled… boiled, and not even the pleasant coolness of the summer night air could ease her pique.

She stomped through the lane that would take her home to Green Gables, unmindful of the mud that tracked her boots and splattered across her pristine, white stockings. And they were new too!

I never should have come to this party, she continued her merciless tirade. I should have known better than to accept an invitation, from the Pyes no less! Nothing good ever came out of a gathering hosted by the Pyes. Never mind that it should be the last time we might all be gathered in such a fashion for a long while.

Indeed, for school had come to a close the previous day—at least for Miss Stacy’s pioneer class. A smattering of them would be staying in Avonlea but for the most part, a majority were resolved to pursue their higher education, including (though it hurt her to leave Diana behind) Anne.

Billy Andrews, however, had other… unsavory opinions about that.

“You got into Queen’s?” he scoffed, referring to the Academy in Charlottetown where those with a vocation in mind chose to pursue them. Anne had not only gotten accepted, but gained the highest marks out of all the applicants in Prince Edward Island.

(She was tied with Gilbert though she often, and with much convenience, forgot that fact)

Billy, the thick-headed oaf, elected to ignore this certitude. He had nothing of import or quality to say for Queen’s Academy, having not applied (and in his innermost musings, known that he was not smart enough to be accepted anyway), and therefore inwardly envied and outwardly ridiculed those who had passed.

Anne, through no provocation of hers, nevertheless received his special brand of scorn.

“You may have fooled the Cuthberts, and our classmates. You may have even fooled this entire island. But you’ll never fool me. I know who you are,” he said this in low tones, and lower still as he crept closer and whispered in her ear like she were his lover murmuring sweet nothings to warm her heart, “the Cuthberts didn’t want you in the first place. They were stuck with you, there was no one else. You may have gotten lucky with them, but you ought not to forget who you are and where your place is.” He grinned then, blinding and malicious. “I feel sorry for the Cuthberts. If I were them, I’d have treated my dog better than you. You’re lower than dirt. You’re an orphan, and who could ever truly want you?”

How she burned and burned, the nerve of this insolent and ill-mannered fool! And yet—she meant to say this out loud, make the most of her extensive vocabulary but, her body betrayed her. Her throat felt parched and her feet leaden. Where had her voice gone? The words that were otherwise ready for her to wield as weapons or shape as clay? Where was her indignation?

Her spirit?

Just as quickly, heat melted to cold, noise gave way to a ringing silence and she felt herself rooted to her spot, Billy’s awful, smug smirk frozen before her eyes until—

“ANDREWS!”

Gilbert’s voice pierced through the static that clouded her mind and Billy’s ugly visage was, at last, removed from her line of vision as he turned towards their schoolmate. Anne did not wait to see what would commence between the two boys, however. As soon as the feeling returned to her legs, she imagined she walked out of there with the poise and dignity befitting a nobility such as the Princess Cordelia.

(Bolted, would have been closer to reality)

With nothing but moonshine for light and the faint rustling of the poplar trees for conversation, Anne was her own company. She thought for sure Diana would have come to her side by now, but she supposed that no one had really seen her leave. Billy, for once, hadn’t made a spectacle of himself though somehow this was worse, for she shuddered at the intimate way he had pressed himself onto her as he purred his contempt.

She did not even deign to consider that one witness to that deplorable interaction and what it meant that he had not followed her so for the moment...

She was utterly alone.

Evenings were a curious thing. There was, after all, something quite romantical about the night—lovers meeting in secret to proclaim their forbidden romance, friends exchanging hushed yet excitable stories beneath blankets by candlelight, oh the adventures to be had under the dusky twilight!

But, it was not called the witching hour for nothing. Terrible things happened once the moon had come to siege the sky for every sin, if only for a moment, could be hidden beneath the cover of darkness—ghosts and wolves and brigands and villains abound, and demons too.

Anne’s demons were not of the horned and pointy-tailed kind. Though they too were born of baneful things, they were mostly made of shadows, wispy and seductive intimations that brushed softly against her mind, lulling and comforting and infinite, till it was a pervasive tumor that lay siege to her sense of reason before she ever realized it was a threat.

She looked at the mud tainting her legs, at the stark contrast between muck and cloth, and thought about how she was much like her stockings.

I am a stain. All I’ve ever given Marilla and Matthew and even Jerry since I got here was grief. And Diana... I dread to think how many times I’ve gotten my bosom friend in trouble! As for Cole, the only reason he is still my friend is because he’s miles away in Charlottetown and therefore spared from my importunate nature. Not to mention, I almost drove Miss Stacy to quit her first year here. I’m nothing but trouble! Though I have no love for it, it must love me, for why else would it follow me wherever I tread?

Anne sniffed, shame filling her gut as she fought back tears. I’m just a stupid, orphan girl. There’s no imagining my way around that. No one could ever want me. No one.

So immersed was she in her melancholy that she hadn’t noticed someone was calling her name till a hand descended on her shoulder.

She shrieked (a shrill, embarrassing, banshee of a sound), closing her eyes even as she whirled around to face her assailant.

“Whoa!” exclaimed a deep and resonant voice.

“Whatever riches you may think I possess I assure you sir I am as poor as the dirt beneath your feet, poorer even, than a cow that grazes a pasture for I am utterly incapable of producing anything of value and I—”

“Anne!”

She hadn’t realized she was without breath till she let out a long and heavy exhale. It occurred to her, then, that the tenor by which her name was said was uncannily familiar, the scent of her would-be attacker was that of sun and grass and clean sweat and deeper still, an aura redolent of quiet, fortitude and refuge.

She opened her eyes and breathed.

“Gilbert.”

“Anne,” he chimed in equally, susurrous tones. When she let out another astonished gasp, the air before her crystallized in an algid cloud.

“Where’s your coat?”

She groaned. Of course! Of course, she forgot her coat and bonnet when she left in a huff. Why, walking out may be as dramatic an act as they came, but the books failed to mention just how inconvenient it was! How had the heroines in her favorite literatures managed their adversities with so much courage and grace? And such humor too! While she must have her exposé out in the cold, with (at this, she is gratified) no audience in sight (and at this, she is mortified) save for one, as she cowers and quakes in her boots?

The ardor that fueled the ire in her blood had by now dissipated, leaving an icy and hollow blitz in her veins. Humiliated to her core, she demanded of him, in squeaky volumes, “What are you doing here?”

So she cleared her throat and asked, more stately, again.

Gilbert shook his head. He did not answer. Instead, he looked at her with wide eyes—silver pupils darting back and forth, as if he couldn’t take in the image of her enough. She felt the fleshy, apple of her cheeks flush, a bit of heat returning to her body though a shiver continued to wrack her bones.

“You’re freezing,” he blurted, before an urgent concern (that made Anne rather uncomfortable, as she was wont to be whenever she found herself in Gilbert’s presence—alone or elseways) driving his motions had him divesting his own coat and, without evocation, wrapping it around her frame.

Encased as she was in his jacket and engulfed in the warmth from his body that had suffused itself onto the cloth, the sweet and opulent smell of him further intensified.

(As did the beat of her heart)

(Though this, if asked about, she would vehemently deny to her grave)

“I don’t need your pity,” she averred in what she hoped was a cold and unforgiving demeanor, even as her hold on the coat about her shoulders only tightened.

“It’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

He sighed, his face scrunched up in exasperation and though a part of her felt abashed at her behavior, a larger part was content to drown in thorough defeat.

“We’re friends, aren’t we Anne?”

She licked her lips, something of a nervous habit. His eyes darted to track the movement and his throat bobbed. She felt her blush deepen.

“Are we?” She whispered.

He laughed though it was more tight than it was humorous.

“Must you always answer my questions with questions?”

She glared at him in the universal expression of, you’re asking for it.

He chuckled in genuine good-nature this time and she felt her irritation abate as she joined him. But their mirth abated all too soon and Gilbert was once more looking at her through hooded eyes that did nothing to lessen their intensity.

“I don’t know what Billy told you that made you react this way, but nothing good ever came out of his foul mouth anyway so, whatever it is he said—don’t believe it,” he shook his head. “It’s not true.”

At once, where she was bereft, the animosity welled within her at the reminder. The wrath that had been absent when she stood before Billy Andrews was now within her grasp and expelled itself onto the nearest presence—Gilbert.

She shoved him. It was a commiserable attempt since he hardly moved, but he let her anyway and she felt a little of her dauntless energy return.

“You can’t say that. You don’t know!”

“Then help me know,” he pleaded.

“I can’t,” she exclaimed, an unwanted sob building in her throat. “It’s too gruesome.”

“Then at least tell me that you don’t believe it,” he took her hand in his with utmost care, his palm coarse with calluses born from a life tending to a farm, his fingertips of ice. And yet, she had never felt so delicate, her hand cradled within his. “Tell me you know he’s wrong.”

“That’s the worse part,” she whispered as she pulled her hand away. “He’s absolutely right.”

A frightful silence had descended upon them. Even the wind had died and the poplar trees halted their rustling, as if Mother Nature herself wanted to be privy to their conversation.

“You can’t mean that, you don’t know what you’re saying—”

“And you do?” she sighed, running a hand—that same, still-tingling hand that Gilbert held what seemed like only a heartbeat ago—over her face.

He groaned. “Not this again.”

She scowled at him. “What do you care anyway? Why are you here? What I do or what I talk about with other people, worthless they may be, is none of your business.”

“And if I want to make it my business?” he countered, the muscle in his jaw ticking from restrained frustration.

She frowned. “What do you mean, Gilbert?��

“Tell me what Andrews said and I can prove to you, I can guarantee, that it’s not true.”

“But it is!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes. It is! ”

They bickered in this fashion as if they were six instead of approaching sixteen. She insisted on her truth (or rather, Billy’s truth), though she hadn’t the faintest idea why. Is this not what she craved? Is this not the assurance and acceptance she sought her whole life? But still, she found herself scoffing.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

He rolled his eyes and in snide intonations, rebutted, “Because you won’t tell me!”

“FINE!” she relented and snarled, nay, practically spat the words at him.

“I’m an orphan! Is that what you wanted to hear? Maybe my parents loved me, once upon a time, but apparently not enough to live for me.” Her voice was guttural, her words laced with so much acrimony, it was unrecognizable to her. “I’m a burden to Matthew and Marilla, who wanted a boy in the first place and instead was saddled with me. I bring misfortune on anyone I touch. I’m nothing but a curse. No one could ever want me.”

There. She said it. And again, that insidious reticence, how she was beginning to abhor it. She closed her eyes, unsure of which she was dreading more: his resignation or condescension.

As it stood, she had neither to fear, for what she received was far worse.

He laughed. Laughed!

“How dare you, Gilbert Blythe!” She fumed. She punched him on the shoulder, though his chortles only grew in volume. She made to cuff him again, but he caught her fist in his and pulled her closer—closer than either of them had ever emboldened to be.

No one was laughing now.

“You are an idiot, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” he murmured, his whisper a hot hiss of breath against her cold and beggared lips. She had never been more aware of the weight of her hand in his, she had never been more aware of him. “A downright fool.”

She was mindful that she should have been peeved by this imputation, her common sense screaming at her to react and do so with equal and voracious impudence.

If only the rest of her faculties got the message.

For though his words were intended to wound, the effect was rather lost in translation. Not when there was an undercurrent of awe in his inflection, not when he said ‘idiot’ and ‘fool’ as if that was not what he meant at all; like they were terms of endearment rather than grave offenses.

As if Gilbert had his own personal meaning just for her, and it was the very opposite of its conventional connotations.

“Am I?” She returned in watery tones for she trembled under the weight of all that implied.

He smiled and it was slight in breadth but tremendous in affection. He stepped closer till she had to crane her neck just to be able to take all of him in, her face tilted towards the moonlight. He stopped his beaming then, for a silvery stream had caught his eye.

She hadn’t realized she was crying till he brushed away a droplet.

“I guarantee you,” he repeated, his eyes fervent and bright, “no one could have ever provided you a better home than the Cuthberts. And Diana—she’s positively radiant around you and she was never that way until you came along. Cole found the courage to be who he truly is and you helped him achieve that. And it was you who orchestrated the plan to keep Miss Stacy in school and believe me, she has never regretted the experience for a single moment. This whole island is alive because of you, you emit a gravity of your own and anyone who meets you can’t help but fall into your orbit. If that’s not enough to convince you…”

That same rough hand, from which he never relinquished her violent fist, now urged her to bloom her fingers so that he might place it on his chest. There she rested them and there he cupped her fingers, with a lambency that made her ache for she didn’t expect such a touch from one who lived most of his life as a laborer.

There she felt his heartbeat, strong and certain and—and racing.

How could it thud so hard and so fast when they hadn’t been running or walking since they began? Astonishment etched itself across her features.

“How—?”

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“For old time’s sake,” she strived to banter, afraid to reveal herself.

(Afraid to acknowledge the truth)

“How did you figure that no one could ever want you? I’m right here,” he avowed. “I’m here, and I want you. So much.” He shook his head and released a laugh that was riddled with disbelief. “I can’t even begin to explain just how so. I want you, plain as that. I wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you and I want you now and I’m—” he gulped. “I’m quite certain I’ll want you for as long as I live.”

She gaped, the flow of her tears halted from her stupor at such an exaltation. All this unbeknownst to Gilbert, her countenance spurred him to quip with a, “Well, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert, what say you about that?”

His lips stretched into a timid smile that betrayed his timorousness all the same.

“I’m at a loss for words,” she admitted freely. At that, his smile dimmed but did not diminish altogether.

He did, however, let her go.

(She hadn’t realized how much of him had seeped into her skin when at once, he stepped back, taking all the heat with him and leaving a resounding void in her chest)

“May I walk you home?”

And just like that, the conversation was dropped.

Anne, who was more confused leaving this exchange than she was when she entered it, acquiesced to this simple request for lack of a better reaction.

The true gentleman that he is, Gilbert indeed accompanied her the entire trek to Green Gables. Bubbles of conversation drifted between them before fizzling out due to the vapidity of their topics. It was only when they reached her porch did he speak to her with a solemnity that matched their earlier situation.

They stood facing each other, the space between them so corpulent it was its own presence. The camaraderie they had built (and sincerely enjoyed) in those final years at school seemed to have evaporated till their very atmosphere felt too hostile to breathe—they were that edgy. Still, he must have wanted to reclaim a bit of ease with a manoeuvre reminiscent of their first meeting.

He tugged on one of her braids.

But the stark difference between then and now was the intent for there was nothing teasing about his touch. There was no mistaking the feeling in his caress when it was so careful.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

It was devotion.

She licked her lips and again, the muscle in his jaw strained as he clenched it.

“Um,” she stuttered. Answer? Answer? She wasn’t ready to answer. Nor did she think she ever would be ready to answer!

“Relax,” He laughed, no doubt reading the panic that pulled her face taut. He smirked.

“We are friends,” he said, a bit of anxiety leaking into his tone. “Right?”

She blew a relieved breath though she shouldn’t have been, the uncertainty in his voice consoled her all the same. In this, she could unfailingly put her faith. She nodded with the eagerness of a pupil first in her class.

“Always.”

At her affirmation, he gave her hair one last, fond tug and replied quietly, “Good,” before arranging it away from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“Anyway…”

She felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Anyway,” she returned in an equally hushed voice.

His parting smile was a shot of radiance in the gloom. She returned it with a crooked one of her own, praying it concealed the jumble of her emotions. His smile… it—did things, to her insides. Strange things. Things that made her sick at the image of him walking away from her.

Things that made her want to stop him leaving.

“Gilbert!”

He whirled at the sound of her voice, hope a living flame on his countenance. She floundered.

“I… you…” her hand clenched around the jacket engulfing her frame, and she remembered. “Your coat!”

She moved to take it off but Gilbert stopped her.

“Keep it.”

“But won’t you be cold?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” he said. “Take care of yourself, Carrots.”

She pursed her lips. Where once the nickname would have incensed her, now it filled her with a breathless sort of glee, like a language only the two of them shared because they were the only ones in the world who understood it.

“I guess… I’ll be seeing you around?”

Why was she stalling?

“So much, it’ll be impossible to miss me,” he teased with a roguish smile.

She chuckled.

He was approaching the gate when she called to him once more, “Goodnight!”

He turned, walking backwards as he tipped his newsboy hat towards her and bowed. “And to you, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert!”

And though he couldn’t see, she bit her lip, trying with all her might to hide her grin.

Watching him leave, she found her ebullience ebbing. Something felt different within her... had her soul shifted somehow? She did not feel like she had been halved nor did she feel any less of herself. If anything, she felt bigger. She felt more. Like her essence had expanded, only to carve a mold shaped suspiciously to Gilbert’s silhouette. She felt forever changed, it was incomprehensible to her that he didn’t feel the same way. And yet—

How could it be so easy for him to walk away?

His frame was swallowed by the darkness before he disappeared altogether, the echoes of their confabulation fading with him until she was all alone.

And it was as if it never happened at all.

Sun chased moon and dusk gave way to dawn. Recounting the occurrence to Diana and Cole (who was visiting from Charlottetown for the weekend to celebrate the start of summer with his childhood chums) betwixt the orange orchard that bordered the Barrys’ property, the sun warm and effulgent on their skin, she deemed her revelation from the night before as ridiculous.

“Right?” she questioned the two, expecting their full agreement. “I was being ridiculous!”

“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Diana muttered.

“I’m sorry,” exclaimed Cole, not sounding apologetic at all, “But I’m still hung up on the part where Gilbert proposed to you.”

Anne was certain she blushed to the roots of her flaming hair.

“He did not!”

“You’re right,” he acceded and she felt it safe for her mind to enter a state of palliation when he followed with a biting, “you are an idiot.”

“Technically, Gilbert said that.” Diana smirked as she spoke. Anne turned to her with a glare.

“And what is your opinion on this, oh bosom friend o’mine?”

She demurred but Anne persisted with a whinge in her voice.

Diana was perfectly aware what Anne wanted her to say, which is why it hurt her to divulge her true opinion. It seemed her friend was in dire need of a wake up call—not that she would be the one to give it.

So she skirted for an answer.

“Well, ‘as long as I live’ seems an awful long commitment…”

Apparently she hadn’t skirted well enough for Anne bellowed with a disparaging, “Diana!”

She cringed. “But—”

Anne groaned. “No! I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

Diana bit her lip, looking rather miserable. “I’m sorry, Anne.”

“Don’t be!” Cole reproached her. “Tell her.”

“Whatever it is, I won’t hear it!”

Anne, in a fit of childish tantrum, put her hands over her ears. It prompted Cole to roll his eyes and march over to where she was seated, buried amongst the roots of a tree so that he could unhand her. He locked eyes with Diana and raised his eyebrows. He tipped his chin towards Anne, who was glaring viciously at him.

“She needs to hear it.”

Anne turned her head away, but it didn’t stop her from hearing what Diana made known.

“I saw you leave last night,” she started. “I was going to follow you, but then Gilbert punched Billy! And apparently, it wasn’t the first time for no one stopped him. Personally, I think Billy has the kind of face that’s just asking to be punched so truly, who could blame Gilbert?”

“Diana,” Cole chided, though his mouth twitched in barely suppressed laughter.

“Well, Gilbert didn’t wait for Billy to get up, he just dashed for the door and that’s where he bumped into me. He asked me if I saw you come out that way and I said yes. I told him I was just about to run after you but, he stopped me.

“‘I’ll go after her,’ he said. ‘There are… words I must say and I can no longer conceal myself.’”

Diana and Cole expected Anne to react in an explosive manner, or, at the very least, say something. When she did nothing but give them both a blank stare, Cole gave Diana an encouraging nod.

“There’s something else, Anne.”

“Oh, what is it now?” she wailed.

Diana shook her head. “It’s not about you. It’s… I’m—”

Her troubles forgotten, Anne jumped to her feet and was at Diana’s side in a blink.

“Are you all right?”

Tears sprung into her eyes and Anne’s alarm grew. “Diana?”

She shook her head.

“I couldn’t be better. I’m, well,” she took a deep breath.

“I’m engaged!”

Anne stared.

Diana deflated. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what,” she said, crossing her arms in defense.

“Like I’m a different person. Like everything's about to change.”

“Everything is about to change!”

Diana looked away.

“When was this?”

She paused, as if unsure whether she should answer.

“Last week.”

“Last week,” Anne repeated, rolling the words around her brain till it clicked. “Last week!”

Diana nodded haplessly. Anne turned to Cole and pointed at him an accusing finger. “You knew!”

“To be fair, she only told me today, as we both made our way here.”

Anne furrowed her brows and rubbed at her forehead. An ache was forming at her right temple.

“But… but we’re only sixteen.”

“Prissy was sixteen when she first walked down the aisle.”

“Look how well that turned out,” she rebutted in a tone heavy with sarcasm. “And what have your parents to say about this? I don’t need a wide ‘scope of imagination’ to figure that Jerry is hardly their first choice for you!”

Diana flinched.

“They… don’t know. I haven’t exactly told them.”

“Oh Lord,” Anne muttered. She was beginning to sound a lot like Marilla, and was just now understanding the spectrum of emotions she herself put the female Cuthbert through on a daily basis.

“When will you tell them?” Cole asked in a more gentle manner.

“If you tell them!” she called out. "Diana, this is Jerry. He’s a dear friend but—"

“Stop it, Anne!” Cole bursted before he shot her a glare. “For someone who prides herself on her tolerance, you sure have a narrow perspective on this. If you would listen to her, you would see that she’s in love.”

“What do you know about love? What do any of us know of love?” she shot back.

Cole sighed in frustration. “You and I may be limited in experience but you would have to be blind not to see it in Diana. And perhaps you are, if you go on in this fashion! Are you so lost in your flight of fancies that you’ve turned your head around on what it means to love? Just look at her, Anne.”

She frowned but for once, Anne forced the words that piled itself into her mouth, down her throat. She turned still wary eyes to her oldest friend and observed her with the kind of open mind she beseeched upon the world, and saw her, truly saw her, anew.

Despite her pallor, she stood straight, her shoulders back in a way that would make her mother proud save for her chin, jutted out in defiance. She had never looked taller. Her eyes held a certain shine—as though nothing, not even the threat of her parents or the prospect of leaving Jerry behind to go to finishing school in Paris, could ever banish their light.

“I know he’s not the Ideal Man we promised ourselves we would find in our youth, nor is his proposal the grand advent that we dreamed of nor is our love the epic we longed to command, but Anne, I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a silly, lovestruck fool. He’s so much better, he’s so much more…”

(She felt more. Was this not a thought she conjured to herself last night?)

Diana trailed off, evidently lost in her thoughts. In that moment, Anne had never felt so far away from her friend. But this wasn’t about her feelings. Diana had a smile on her face and it was awash in excitement but more than anything, it was serene. As though she had found her rightful place in the world, and it was by Jerry’s side, her arm slightly outstretched and her body angled in a way like she was merely waiting to fit herself to him.

Chagrined, the pit of her gut flooded with the shame of her actions. That she drove Diana to have to explain herself! How could she have done this and ever called herself a bosom friend?

In the end, she only had one other question to ask.

“Are you happy?”

Both Cole and Diana turned surprise eyes, at her and her tone, soft and apologetic. Diana though, her lovely jet-black hair a blazing amber in the noon sunshine, looked perfectly brilliant and Anne had her answer.

“If you’re happy, then so am I.”

She went to her, a mist transforming her gaze into pools as she hugged the girl who had grown into a woman, seemingly before her very eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “you can’t know how much,”

“It’s all ready forgotten.”

Cole shortly joined their embrace and the three friends were laughing even as they wiped rivulets of tears from each other’s cheeks.

“Well,” Cole prompted. They were spread on the grass, their heads together in a triangle while they mooned onto the blue sky and painted pictures out of clouds. “How did he propose?”

Anne’s mouth twisted as she deduced that it must have been unromantical—though this sentiment, she kept to herself lest she again upset the comradeship that was so newly established amongst them.

But Diana’s tenor was sweet and dreamy as she recalled, “He wrote me a letter—a full-fledged letter! He gave it to me personally, of course, for fear of my parents finding it first but oh, it was in an envelope and stamped and everything, as if he had sent it to me through courier.”

She was all too relieved that she kept her opinions to herself, for though he hadn’t gone down on one knee, Anne supposed that an epistolary proposal sounded absolutely beauteous—especially once she considered just how far Jerry had come from, being illiterate as a child. He prided himself on his abilities now.

“If anything, I have you to thank Anne, for you began his tutelage.” Diana sighed. “I’d show you the letter, but I’d like to keep it to myself if you don’t mind.” She blushed as she said this and they all giggled, for they did not mind at all. “But truly, it was divine, it was himself in words. All his emotions on a page, and yet all he wrote of was me...”

Nestled within the grass, Diana was a rose in bloom with the way she blushed as she spoke of her betrothed. It was then Anne had an epiphany.

Perhaps love did not always come in the form of impassioned speeches or grandiose adventures. Perhaps it wasn’t always a princess who was locked up in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon, her prince ready to brave the flames.

Maybe it was a low-burning ember, less hot than the blaze of a fire sure, but just as passionate. She thought of Diana and Jerry and wondered if it might be letters written in longhand, if the prince’s sword was actually a pen, the ink his weapon that illustrated his ardor—if the dragon wasn’t a dragon but the politics of society that told young lovers they must not marry below their station or, and she looked at Cole, their same sex.

Maybe love didn’t always mean the adventure was in far off places, but was found within the four walls of her classroom; where a rival, in actuality, was not the villain but a prince in disguise?

It was standing up for what and who you believed in, going after them when they walked away and promising to want them for all time.

“Anne?”

Diana touched her shoulder but all she could say was, “I am a fool.”

Cole smiled knowingly.

But, fool that she was, it took her till twilight to empower herself to take any sort of action. With word to Marilla on where she would be, and Marilla raising an astute eyebrow at the very young male coat she left behind when she departed (honestly, was she the only one oblivious to her own feelings?), she went where her heart led.

And her heart led her at the boundary of the Blythe farm, where she paced back and forth, back and forth and back and forth until—

“Anne?”

She startled. “Gilbert!”

“Hello…?”

He looked bewildered at her being there, and rightfully so. Dusk was falling, and here they were again. She chuckled, though it was riddled with tension.

“You’re always catching me unawares,” she jested. “I wonder when I’ll ever return the favor.”

“Impossible,” he muttered.

Disconcerted, she inquired, “why?”

He gave her a modest smile, though he didn’t look away.

“I’m always aware of you.”

She was tempted to look away—so heated was his gaze. But her determination was even more ignited and so she compelled herself to hold his stare.

“Not that I’m displeased,” he continued, before the silence could prolong. “But what are you doing here? It’s nightfall. Is something wrong in Green Gables?”

“No, no,” she assured in quick tones. “The very opposite. I just—I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed as he tilted his head for her to go on. “Yeah?”

“It is rather important,” she began. “Could we… could we talk somewhere more privately? Preferably, not out in the cold.”

“Oh!” Gilbert laughed in abashment. “Of course, let’s go inside.”

“Where are Bash and Mary?” She asked when they entered the dark and empty house. Gilbert led her to the parlor where he offered her a seat and he lit candles as he spoke.

“They’re in Charlottetown, I just came from the train station where I dropped them off actually. They’re going to attend to Mary’s son. He’s fallen ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I offered to go with them, but it doesn’t sound so serious. Overfatigue, probably stress from work, and a fever. Mary wants to be with him, just to be sure and Bash, well,” he rolled his eyes though when he spoke, it was full of fondness. “He never wants to be far from Mary.”

Again, they shared a weighted look. Anne cleared her throat, but nothing came out. Should she make more small talk? Ease into it? Or should she just dive right in?

“So,” Gilbert smoothly urged. “You had something important to tell me?”

Right, she thought, diving into it, then.

“I needed to see you,” she started.

“In the middle of the night?”

He sounded amused. Was he mocking her? Here she was, laying her heart bare and he was ribbing her?

“Hardly!” she burst out, her temper rising. “The sun hasn’t even fully set!”

“Hasn’t it?”

He gestured towards the window where, surely enough, darkness had conquered the sky with a swiftness Anne had forgotten it was capable of. She frowned and when she looked back at him, that insufferable smirk was affixed to his lips.

Oh he means to rile me, she conjectured. He thinks he’s so clever!

His goading gave her an inexplicable boost of confidence so, abruptly, she declared, “I have objections.”

“Objections?” befuddled, he scratched at the side of his head—a habit of his, she knew. “To what?”

“To ‘as long as I live’.”

“As long as I—”

He broke himself off as all humor was swept from him and the light of realization settled upon his eyes.

“‘Forever’ sounds ever more romantical, don’t you agree?”

“Anne,” he whispered, hope lighting his face and forging her heart and soul anew. She hid a smile. How unfair it was that he should look so glorious under the candlelight, the shadows sharpening his all ready chiseled jaw and the strong slant of his nose.

How he glowed.

“I think I ought to school you on the proper techniques to proposing. I am, after all, to be a teacher.”

“Oh,” he queried, his voice wobbly and a suspiciously wet gleam in his cinereal look. “What exactly would you have me do differently, teacher?”

“Well, for one, I would have you down on your knee like… so.”

Gilbert’s eyes widened in genuine shock. In truth, Anne too was surprised at herself. She never thought she would be so happy, lowering herself to the ground. But she was, as she bent on one knee.

“And then?” he said, low and susurrous.

“Then, I would have you take my hand,” Anne’s fingers touched his, resting open on his lap like he was just waiting, waiting.

They entwined.

“We would look deeply into… each other’s… eyes…”

Her breathing began to quicken. From the rapid rise and fall of his chest, so had his. She was drowning, captured by the depth of his wonder—nothing could have made her look away from him.

“Then?”

“The most important part, of course.” she breathed. “A vow.”

She gulped.

“I love you.”

Gilbert exhaled shakily, his grip tightening on her hand.

“Would you have me, Gilbert? Would you do me the honor of being my partner… forever?”

Her breath hitched. For one horrid second, she was of the mind he would deny her.

He let go of her hand. He shoved the chair away and was leveled in front of her in a heartbeat. He cupped her face in his hands, his touch light and cool as a doctor’s should be. Anne closed her eyes.

Was there ever any doubt?

Gilbert kissed her.

In this, she could trust. This, she thought, is true.

She was happy to stay that way, ecstatic to be linked in the most universal language of devotion. But air was a necessity, and when they pulled but a hairsbreadth away she asked, “Is that a yes?”

Gilbert laughed, jubilant and boisterous, and oh how it outshined even the shadows.

“What now?” she breathed, her hands cupping his own around her face.

“I love you, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, more than anything. I’ll love you in this life and the next, you can be sure. Forever isn’t nearly long enough.”

“Now that’s a vow.”

He laughed again. She joined him. "Shut up and kiss me, Carrots."

"You shut up and kiss m—"

He did, and she didn't even mind that he cut her off.

For Diana was right. They were no Elaine and Lancelot, but how could she ever give this up? Give him up? A lifetime of his kisses, a lifetime of his touch, forever in his arms?

No... this was better.

This was more.

AN: Come say hi to me! ;)

#shirbert #shirbert ff #awae #awae ff #anne shirley-cuthbert #gilbert blythe #shirbert future fic #shirbert au #shirbert fluff #I just want my children to be happy #my two happy idiots #let them be freeeeeeeeeeeee #swishandflickwit ff

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sienna-walsh · 6 years

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#[sienna narrative: 004]

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fleurdeneuf · 7 years

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my all time top 10 favorite fics

I saw this going around as a meme for another fandom (h/t @justkeeponthegrass), and the OP encouraged others to jump in, so let’s do this thing!

Choosing only ten fics was nearly impossible, and some of them would change depending on the day, but for now - here they are. Most of these are old, from when I first started reading fic on Teaspoon, years before I’d heard of tumblr, let alone joined it. These are the fics that have settled deep into my bones and are what I think of when I think of “fic.” They shaped fandom and fic for me from the very beginning.

These are not in any ranked sort of order, aside from the order in which I thought of them, so it’s fitting that lilli and amber are at the top. :’) As always, please heed all authors’ ratings/warnings.

1. Wolf Moon (Teaspoon | LJ) by throughanamberfocus (Teaspoon | LJ), 119k words (Alt!Nine/Rose, NSFW, post-Doomsday), first story in the Better With You series (Teaspoon | LJ), second story is Hunger Moon (Teaspoon | LJ). (Several more stories were planned, but as yet unwritten.)

Rose changed direction and went to answer her front door. She pulled the door open and looked at the man standing there. She took a step back and the glass of wine tumbled out of her hand and onto the carpet. She looked down at it in dismay. “That’s going to leave a stain,” she said. She glanced back up at the familiar, yet unfamiliar face in front of her. “Club soda and salt,” said that voice in that accent. She had never expected to hear that harsh Northern accent spoken from that particular throat ever again in her life. --Wolf Moon, Chapter 2

@thedalektables has a great round up post for this fic, if you want to know more of what’s coming.

See also: Leap of Faith (Fobwatched!Alt!Nine/Rose, NSFW, post-Doomsday, WIP) (Teaspoon | LJ) and the one shot that inspired it, Third Time’s the Charm (Teaspoon | LJ), the Bodies in Motion series (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | LJ), The Zeppelins Verse (Tentoo/Alt!Rose, NSFW, post-Journey’s End) (Teaspoon | LJ), and everything else she’s ever written.

2. Passions Unspoken (Teaspoon | LJ) and its sequel, Out of the Woods (Teaspoon | LJ) by @lillibetm3 (Teaspoon | LJ) , 6k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW)

Stepping away from the doors, Rose turned and cast a covert glance to the Doctor, only to find that he was busy checking one of the console screens as if nothing had happened between them. In fact if it wasn't for the Time Lord shaped ache between her legs, and that her knickers were still on Canthan, (the Doctor had been quite determined that he wanted them off,) Rose could almost believe that she'd imagined the whole thing. --Out of the Woods

See also: Heart Shaped (Nine/Rose, NSFW, sex pollen) (Teaspoon | LJ ) , Strange Magicks (Nine/Rose, NSFW), Teach Me to Sin (Nine/Rose, NSFW, teacher/student), and everything else she’s ever written.

3. In Human Hands by rallalon (Teaspoon | LJ), 160k words (Nine/Rose, Human Nature UA, Abandoned)

"What’s your name?" he asks without meaning to, straightening to look at her once more. She pauses in the doorway of the garage, this small girl framed in the large entrance. The sunlight doesn’t so much hit her hair as stroke it, doesn’t so much strike her as kiss her bare shoulders. Maybe it’s the tank top that’s familiar or maybe it’s the smile. It could be nothing more than a well-known accent. But it’s definitely something. "I’m Rose," she says, stresses the second word as if she thinks he might be slow or as if she thinks he needs reminding of a crucial fact. It does sound like a reminder. Maybe she said before and he forgot. He’s not very good with names. "John Smith," he replies. "See you," she says and leaves and, much to his frustration, the engine continues to be temperamental for the rest of the day.

--In Human Hands, Chapter 1

Yes, I know it’s unfinished. But it’s worth reading and getting your heart ripped out for, so read it anyway.

See also: Non-Linear Love Story (Eight/Rose, Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | LJ)

4. Premium Quality Narcotics by Untempered Schism, 32k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW, post-Dalek), part of the Trajectory series. The sequel is The Lift (set during The Long Game).

Rose blinked and nodded, her head swimming. She was having a difficult time getting a handle on which Doctor she was talking to at any given moment, the sensual tease who had centuries of sexual experience to draw upon for inspiration, the oh so lucid and serious goal-oriented physician trying to reassure her and heal himself, the sweetly innocent and giddy adoring man-child or the broken, reluctant and guilt-ridden ex-soldier with more PTSD than any being could reasonably hope to survive. They were all him, but he was cycling through personality fragments so fast it was hard to keep up. She inhaled deeply, pulling herself together and dashed the last trace her tears from her cheeks with trembling fingertips. --Premium Quality Narcotics, Chapter 2

See also: Designated Driver (Nine/Rose, NSFW, BDSM), One Street Away (Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose, NSFW) [If there were a story that could make me forgive and sympathize with Ten for what Rose goes through in School Reunion and GITF, this fic would be it.], Just One Universe Away (Nine/Rose, UA, NSFW, baby!fic), and all other Nine/Rose smut she’s ever written.

5. Tangled up in Blue (Teaspoon | LJ) by @jessalrynn (Teaspoon | LJ | FF) , 10k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW)

He looked like he'd been dipped in blue paint and then decorated and, while Rose could admire the results, she actually hated the artist with a passion. That this unknown person had gotten to trail a paint brush over her Doctor, picking out his details in gold and silver, trimming it all in fine black lines, and the occasional bright band of color, set her blood boiling. Rose deeply resented the unknown man or woman for having had both the audacity and the opportunity to do something she now dearly wished she'd thought of first. --Tangled up in Blue

See also: Handstands (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (LJ | FF), Never Quite Normal (Nine/Rose, UA, NSFW), co-written with Jabberwocky as Pairadox Timeline (Teaspoon | FF), Sunday, Domestic (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | FF), Double Crossing (Ten/Rose, Seven, Ace McShane) (Teaspoon | LJ | FF)

6. An Education by @anne-hedonia (Teaspoon), 55k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW, Human Nature UA)

"Fine," she sighed tremulously. "Take me h–"

He cut her off with a wordless cry–he couldn't even bear to hear the sentence finished. He shoved the table out from between them and grabbed her, clasping her body to his with an arm around her waist and her mouth to his with a large hand on the back of her head. She caught him and welcomed him and gave back in kind, and together they fought the cruel separation imposed by bones and flesh. --An Education, Chapter 16

@thedalektables has a great round up post for this fic, if you want to know more of what’s coming.

See also: Time Out (Nine/Rose, NSFW, Father’s Day), Mamihlapinatapai (Nine/Rose, NSFW), and everything else she’s ever written.

7. Crimes of Passion by Scarlet Women (a collaboration between @lillibetm3 and sap1066), 22k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW)

Rose grinned wickedly at him. "So what you’re saying — is that this," she held out her smeared hand to him. "Is better than sex."

He bristled, unable to look away from the chocolate oozing out of the corner of her mouth. "Not better than sex with me," he replied without thinking, then, realising what he’d said, felt a surge of embarrassment. But with the way Rose was looking at him, it wasn't long before he felt a surge of something else... somewhere else.

She licked her palm thoughtfully, gazing up at him over the tips of her fingers, stroking her tongue around her hand until it was clean. His eyes followed every move she made. "Prove it," she said at last.

--Crimes of Passion, Chapter 3

See also: Modesty Forbids (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | LJ)

8. Evolution of a Scandal (Teaspoon | AO3 | tumblr) by @rishidiams (Teaspoon | AO3) , 76k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW, AU, SDOACG crossover)

Without another word, John grabs the bottom of her shirt and drags it over her head. He steps away from her slightly as it passes between them, his eyes as dark as a storm when he returns. "I don't like that other men get to touch you. I don't like that they get to see you like this."

"No one sees me like this," she admits breathlessly. "No one has ever seen me like this."

--Evolution of a Scandal, Chapter 19

See also: Mine? (Nine/Rose, UA, post-Doomsday, baby!fic) (AO3 | tumblr) , Promises Unbroken (Nine/Rose, war AU, NSFW, underage warning, WIP) (AO3 | tumblr), Faith of the Heart (Nine/Rose, Star Trek/soulmate AU, NSFW, WIP) (AO3 | tumblr), Her Dragon (Nine/Rose, AU, dragon!Nine) (AO3 | tumblr)

9. Dumbstruck (Teaspoon | LJ | AO3) by sap1066 (Teaspoon | LJ | AO3), 5k words (Nine/Rose, NSFW)

The sudden rush of mellifluous sound into her ears stilled her random movements, her hand stretched in mid air. It was haunting, beautiful, the timbre rich and dark, reminding her of underground, soft and silent things. She raised her eyebrows, looked down curiously at the dials — she had clearly hit the right button somewhere. The noise came again, crawling down her spine, making her shiver. It was possibly the most sensual thing she had ever heard, she thought. She didn’t want it to stop. It did. Released from the spell, her hand fell back onto the panel. The silence was like a dash of iced water, but she jumped even more when she felt his strong fingers wrap themselves around her wrist, tugging her hand away from the controls. --Dumbstruck, Chapter 1

See also: Five and a Half Hours (Nine/Rose, NSFW, GITF fix it) (Teaspoon | LJ | AO3), Always in the Kitchen at Parties (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | LJ) , Bonfire Night (Teaspoon | LJ), Advent Calendar (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | LJ), and all other Nine/Rose smut she’s ever written.

10. Seed Pearls (Teaspoon | LJ | FF) by HonorH (Teaspoon | LJ | FF) , 47k words (alt!Nine/Rose, NSFW, post-Doomsday)

--John. She stopped abruptly. It wasn’t possible that John was blocking her path, arms crossed, a thunderstorm in his face. Yet her eyes were telling her differently. “You know,” he said in a voice like iron, “it’s traditional among civilized society to at least say goodbye face-to-face when leaving a lover.”

--Seed Pearls, Chapter 15

See also: Brown Paper Bag Fics (Nine/Rose, NSFW) (Teaspoon | LJ) and Out of Joint (Nine/Rose, FIrefly crossover) (Teaspoon | LJ)

11. The Winter Season by teawithlemon/teawithlemon2/teawhovian/tealicity (Nine/Rose, Human Nature UA, NSFW)

I know it’s gone, but it needed a place on this list.

Tagging ten people whose ten favorite fics I’d really love to see (They can be from any fandom(s) you want; mine are all Nine/Rose because I’m boring, but any and all fandoms are fine!): @rishidiams, @kelkat9, @ruebella-b, @lillibetm3, @perfectlyrose, @anne-hedonia, @wholockgal, @chiaroscuroverse, @acreasy1, @goingtothetardis

(I would have tagged @deathlyfandoms because I have her to thank/blame for the classic fic and GITF fix it rabbit holes I’ve fallen down, but she beat me and came up with two rec lists already - both of which are great and you should check them out.)

If anyone else wants to do it, please do, and mention/tag me so I can see your post!

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schraubd · 7 years

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I'm Sick of Smug-Takes on Berkeley Offering "Counseling"

Former Breitbart editor Ben Shapiro is coming to campus this week. Shapiro will be followed this month by Ann Coulter, Steve Bannon, and Milo Yiannopoulos, as part of a Berkeley "free speech week". In a long email outlining the various campus policies that would be in place to facilitate all these speeches (and as I've consistently argued, having been invited by authorized community members they do have a right to speak free of censorship or material disruption, though of course not from non-intrusive protest or criticism), Executive Vice Chancellor Paul Alivisatos mentioned that, among other things, counseling services were available for any students who felt "threatened or harassed simply because of who they are or for what they believe." And the internet went wild. I don't need to collect links -- here's an example, but they're not hard to find. Across the entire political spectrum of the mainstream media -- you know, center-left to hard-right -- there was near-uniform glee in dumping on coddling Berkeley administrators and infantile Berkeley students who need counseling just because they're hearing "ideas they disagree with." I cannot tell you how sick I am of hearing this. It's lazy, it's a cheap shot, it's intellectually incoherent, and above all it's mean-spirited. Berkeley isn't wrong here. And it's detractors are showing more about what's missing in their character than the most stereotypical Golden Bear hipster. For starters, Berkeley is a big place. It's total enrollment is over 40,000 students. These young people come from a range of backgrounds, and at any given time across that 40,000 there will be persons who are struggling, or experiencing crises, or feeling threatened, or any other permutation of personal circumstance and emotional troubles you can imagine. I've already written recently about how all of us -- self-satisfied declarations notwithstanding -- intuitively understand how certain speech can truly wound deeply, in a manner which we can all empathize with. That doesn't mean we ban it (and offering counseling doesn't "ban" anything), but it does mean that there's a genuine phenomena that we can and should attempt to address So let's be empathic. Let's imagine, amongst Berkeley's 40,000 students, that there is a student who is struggling. Maybe he's away from home for the first time and having difficulty adjusting. Maybe she feels in over her head in classes, finding that work that got her an A in high school is barely scraping a C at Berkeley. And then let's add more to it -- maybe he's just found out that he's now at imminent risk of deportation from the only country he's ever truly known. Maybe she's found out that, though she proudly served her country and is a veteran of the American armed forces, the President of the United States publicly declared her to be a burden on the US military who should never have been allowed to wear the uniform. Now let's remember who Ben Shapiro is.

Ben Shapiro thinks that trans individuals suffer from a "mental illness" and gratuitously misgenders them for the primary purpose of causing offense. He refers to DACA as President Obama's "executive amnesty". Pretty much the only reason his isn't an avowed member of the alt-right is that they happen to hate him too. He's not an intellectual. He's not one the great thinkers of the right. His oeuvre, his raison d'etre, is to be a hurtful provocateur. That's what he brings to the table.

And let's be clear: this, the above, was why Ben Shapiro was invited to Berkeley. It wasn't because he offered "a different view." And it certainly wasn't because of the intellectual candlepower he has on offer. The people who invited Ben Shapiro to UC-Berkeley did so because of, not in spite of, the hurt he will dish out to already-vulnerable members of the community. The students I outlined above -- already struggling, buffeted by political dynamics which very much are designed to dehumanize them -- now have to reckon with the reality that a non-negligible chunk of their colleagues are glad they're feeling that way. They actively want to accelerate the process. They'll go out of their way to invite speakers to reiterate and emphasize the point.

Honestly, I don't blame them if they could use a venue to talk out their feelings a bit. It strikes me as spectacularly uncharitable, a colossal failure of basic empathy, to think otherwise. Then again, what is our polity going through now but a colossal failure of basic empathy?

After the election, I made a similar comment (which I cannot find) when people again made fun of college kids who expressed deep hurt and fear upon the election of Donald Trump. This, too, was attributed to fragile millennial snowflakes who don't know how to tolerate hardship. And I remarked that the man now faced with being expelled from the country is not scared because he's frail, and the woman who was the victim of a sexual assault is not despondent because she's weak-willed. We've seemingly moved past "don't punch people who think you're subhuman" (okay) to "don't be sad that people think you're subhuman" (really?). Some are arguing that the real problem with offering counseling is that it doesn't teach the kids "resilience". First of all, I wonder what they think goes on in counseling sessions -- my strong suspicion is that they are precisely about fostering resiliency so that students are better able to cope with such annoying trivialities like "I may be torn from the only home I've ever known at any moment and a sizeable portion of what I thought was my community will cheer as they drag me off." The objection here isn't so much to lack of resilience as to the university having the temerity to try and teach it -- like objecting to wilderness training because shouldn't real men already know how to survive outdoors? Second, it is hard not to hear in this objection a deep resentment at the fact that today, even now, some people still do proactively care about the feelings of others. The argument seems to be that "fifty years ago if someone felt marginalized on a college campus nobody gave a shit. Today, some people -- including a few holding administrative positions -- do care, and for some reason that's a step backwards for society." One can hear more than a little of the typical mockery associated with using therapy of any sort -- though I admit I hadn't heard it manifest this overtly in some time -- which suggests that only persons of pathologically fragile mental composition could ever need something as lily-livered as counseling. Again, I find this argument hard to relate to, seeing as its genealogy is so thoroughly bound up in nothing more complicated than pure cruelty. Shorn of the feelings of superiority it generates, can anyone actually defend this? Others complain that students shouldn't be going to therapy in response to such speech, they should be responding in other ways -- debate, protest, donations, activism, any thing else. Of all the objections, this is the one that is the most difficult to credit. Does anyone think that the only way Berkeley students will respond to Ben Shapiro's speech is by going to counseling sessions? That Friday morning, all 40,000 of us will march into whatever center houses our mental health professionals and demand to be soothed? Of course not. Of course there will be debate, and protest, and donations, and activism. And you can bet that however such actions manifest, people will still find a way to denounce the entire response tout court -- unjustified actions like violence, yes, but also silent protest, but also waving signs, but also pure condemnatory speech (especially if that speech dares use the dreaded -ism or -phobic suffixes). Finally, let's dispense with the notion that this is all being triggered by students who can't tolerate "ideas they disagree with." For starters, it's notable that while Alivisatos' email does not in fact refer to any speakers in particular, everybody simultaneously assumed they were talking about Ben Shapiro while at the same time being aghast at how anyone could possibly need counseling after hearing Ben Shapiro. Me thinks they protest to much. But more to the point: Berkeley regularly hosts speakers who will present ideas many on campus will disagree with. This week, David Hirsh is giving a talk on "Contemporary Left Antisemitism" -- surely, many on campus would resist his conclusions. Later this term, National Review editor Reihan Salam will be speaking on immigration policy -- with no known objections or protests planned. So the problem isn't ideas people disagree with. The problem is Ben Shapiro, and Ann Coulter, and Milo Yiannopoulos. One doesn't invite them to campus because they're presenting important ideas which need to be reckoned with. There are plenty of conservatives who fit the bill, and when those conservatives show up they are typically met with little fanfare. But if you're inviting this contingent, you're doing it because you like hurting people. That's their comparative advantage, that's the thing they can offer over and above all of their competitors. It neither bothers me, nor surprises me, nor offends me, that this offends certain students. If some portion of those students are in an emotional place right now where they feel like they need counseling, I encourage them to get it. If others want to protest the speech, I support their right to do so within the parameters of the law. If still others want to attend the speech, or subject Shapiro to harsh questioning, or pen scathing op-eds in the Daily Cal, I applaud them all for it. And each of these options got pride of place in Alivistos' email. All of these are valid responses. None of them are worthy of scorn, none of them signal any deficiency in our student body. What is far more worrisome is the reaction of the so-called "adults" in the media, who have grown so fond of bashing kids-these-days that they've seemingly forgotten the need to reason, much less to empathize. via The Debate Link http://ift.tt/2xjwwVY

#academia #Berkeley #College #free speech #psychology #youth

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novoplata · 5 years

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Afraid.

I stumbled upon an uneven spot during my trail run two weeks ago and ended up skinning my knees and elbow. The scrapes were rather nasty but I was lucky, nonetheless, that no bones were broken. I even joked to friends (who would wince at the sight of my ugly scrape) that at least it wasn’t my face.

Anyway, I went back to the trail as soon my bruises have healed and I no longer felt sore. Nonetheless, I still couldn’t help but shudder a little each time I make a lap around the spot where I’d fallen and hurt myself. I thought I was OK, but part of me was still cautious and afraid.

I have always liked that trail, but somehow because of that episode two weeks ago, part of me wondered whether I should start running on a proper track instead.

Overcoming blame and hatred.

Two years ago, I had gotten to know an ex-colleague whom I had initially taken a liking to. Everything started to change when i found out that she had gotten pregnant outside of wedlock and I’d started to feel rather abhorrent towards her.

I knew that this was an unhealthy emotion and I decided to talk to my good friend and prayer partner about it.

“Why do you think I could suddenly dislike her?I said. “Could it be possible that I’m jealous that she’s getting laid and I’m not?”

“I doubt it,” my friend said. “But why don’t you pray about it and maybe God will reveal something to you.”

So, I did just that.

Not long after, it was brought to my realization that I had felt such way because in a way, the ex-colleague had represented my mom. Subconsciously, I had been feeling resentful and blaming my mom for my less than sunny childhood. All my life I had blamed my mom for, what I believed as her lack of wisdom in making choices.

She was a teenager when she fell pregnant with me and she literally didn’t know what she was doing while raising up my two younger siblings and I. She also battled depression for most of her life before dying at the age of 31. It wasn’t something that I’m necessarily conscious of, but each time I encounter a woman who’s hopelessly in love and pregnant but caught in a financial quagmire, I would always be filled with inexplicable disdain.

I realized then that I needed to let go of my grudges. I needed to forgive my mom and move on.

Love cast all fear.

“Go ask him when will his house be free for the party!” said my friend and prayer partner one day. She had been trying (rather unsuccessfully) to encourage me to talk to a certain guy from our church.

“Why don’t you ask him? He’s your friend. I hardly know him,” I said.

“Well, it’s got to start somewhere. It’s OK for girls to make the first move, you know? Do you know Anne and Martin? Anne actually asked Martin out first...”

I sighed nervously. “OK, I’ll text him in a while.”

“Ask him now! If you text him during the day, he may be busy working and not respond, and then you’ll feel sad...”

I laughed on the other line and wondered if I’ve been doing anything at all to give away any signs that I liked Church Guy. I’ve made sure I wouldn’t even mention his name in my conversations. The last thing I want is for my church friends to think that I’m hanging out in church to meet guys. Geez, no.

It’s been four years since my last real relationship. I should already be OK. I mean, why shouldn’t I? I’ve taken four years to work on myself. I’ve produced so much good fruits since then and i had managed to rebuild my relationship with God, after so many years trying to avoid Him. I’m all well now -- spiritually, financially, emotionally. Heck, even my last boyfriend had gotten married. I’m sure I’m ready to mingle too.

Besides, my friend isn’t the kind who just recommends a guy to me. She’d known me for over a decade, and she’d known Church Guy probably longer. I trust her judgement. But there’s still something holding me back. Just like how I’d still wince as I lap around the spot where I fell, I’d still wince at the thought of getting hurt again -- although in truth, I really liked Church Guy too. My friend really didn’t have to convince me at all.

It’s taken me four years to be this healthy again. To not look back in paranoia over what’s happened in the past, or wonder “what’s wrong with me?” anymore. i’ve been emancipated. I’m all healed and whole, but because of this, i’m feeling slightly reluctant to get my feet wet again. In a way, I feel like a puppy who’s wagging its tail, eager to be petted, but reluctant to go near.

I wish there’s a way to know for sure.

#love #fear #faith

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simomonsiwritings · 7 years

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Venice Biennale review: mediocrity suspended between poles of earnestness and silliness

by John McDonald published on The Sydney Morning Herald, May 20 2017

Ask people to name the most romantic city in the world, and Venice is usually at the top of the list – but there are dissenters. D H Lawrence said Venice was green, slippery and abhorrent, and he didn't even have to contend with the crowds in the Giardini and Arsenale during the opening days of the Venice Biennale.

Every time I find myself standing for an hour in front of a national pavilion waiting to see who-knows-what, I incline a little more towards Lawrence's opinion. Although maybe not the green and slippery bits.

It's universally agreed that queues are a blight and a pestilence, yet every year they seem to get longer. If I were director of the Biennale I'd ban any exhibition that required a queue, but countries are being rewarded for inflicting misery on hapless viewers.

This year the Golden Lion for Best National Participation went to Germany, for Anne Imhof's Faust, a work that was abhorrent in so many ways I'd need another column to cover all the angles. The queue was such that I felt lucky to have waited only 57 minutes. Upon entering, the art was largely invisible.

A false floor of glass had been placed over the real floor, creating a narrow enclosure in which a group of "dancers" undertook various banal actions during a five-hour period. Every new movement sent viewers stampeding to the relevant part of the room. For most of the time the majority of the audience could see nothing at all. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who resented being treated like a laboratory rat, but the psychology of the queue ensures that after having waited for hours to get into the pavilion, viewers will linger in order to justify the time they wasted. In the process they waste even more time.

The first reviews of this excruciating, pretentious non-spectacle made it sound like a life-changing experience. This testifies to another psychological phenomenon: expose a group of arty people to something boring and incomprehensible and they'll swear it was magnificent.

Even the press release for Faust is abhorrent: "Only by forming an association of bodies, only by occupying space can resistance take hold," it croons. "Dualistic conceptions and the frontier between subject and object of capitalism disintegrate…" Und so weiter!

As the buzz of admiration went viral it became inevitable that Germany would pick up the gong, and Anne Imhof be anointed as the Next Big Thing. It was depressing to realise how many people have a masochistic desire to suffer for someone else's art.

Despite its upbeat subtitle – Viva Arte Viva – the 57th Biennale will go down in history as a lump of mediocrity suspended between poles of earnestness and silliness. This year's curator was Christine Macel, of the Centre Pompidou, and her grand scheme was to make a Biennale "designed with artists, by artists and for artists". This sounded like a better plan than making a Biennale with plumbers or parking meter attendants or dentists, but it seemed to disguise the fact that Madame Macel was the one doing the choosing.

To further complicate matters she divided the show into nine "chapters" or "Trans-pavilions". The first was the Pavilion of Artists and Books, the last, the Pavilion of Time and Infinity. By now you probably get the idea: another Biennale with a seemingly random selection of artists veiled in specious rhetoric. A classic combo.

It wasn't easy to follow the logic that could select 120 international artists and come up with barely a hit. There was very little painting to be seen, and this is almost always the sign of a poor show. The curator who can't deal with painting, or believes that painting is adequately represented by Raymond Hains' copies of old Biennale posters, doesn't inspire confidence.

The best things in this year's Biennale lay outside the specially curated central exhibition, in the satellite shows held in museums, and the national pavilions of the 85 countries that came to the party.

For me, nothing was better than Philip Guston and the Poets at the Accademia, an electrifying survey that related the American artist's paintings to the work of D H Lawrence, Wallace Stevens, W B Yeats, T S Eliot and Eugenio Montale. The connections were loose, but Guston's works, from both abstract and figurative periods, felt like the antidote to Macel's curatorial masterplan.

In terms of sheer spectacle, the popular crowd-pleaser was Damien Hirst's Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable, which filled the Palazzo Grassi and the Punta della Dogana with fake artefacts allegedly retrieved from the bottom of the ocean, in a conceit worthy of Jonathan Swift.

Hirst seems to have begun with the idea of making close facsimilies of ancient bric-a-brac including statues, swords, coins, bowls and vases, but soon veered into the realms of parody. Encrusted in painted moulds of coral and barnacles, one could find Goofy, Mickey Mouse, the Elephant Man, and a scene from Walt Disney's The Jungle Book. Among bronze and marble statues of unknown gods and royalty, one recognised figures such as Yo-landi from rap group, Die Antwoord, and Pharrell Williams as a Pharoah.

The scale – and expense – of this exercise was overwhelming, but by the time one had wandered wide-eyed through several rooms of the stuff, it began to feel like the apotheosis of the tourist gift shop. The aesthetic was closer to that of a Hollywood superhero flick than an art gallery, with Hirst as executive producer.

One wonders whether the incipient megalomania of Treasures will alienate viewers who have already grown tired of this artist's relentless commercialism. It's likely that Hirst's impersonation of Cecil B DeMille encouraged Biennale visitors to think more favourably of Anne Imhof's anti-entertainment in the German pavilion.

Hirst was out-of-step with a Biennale in which a majority of exhibits seemed to be concerned with global political problems, generating a large volume of work that was morally admirable and artistically deplorable.

The general ambience might be measured by the number of people displaying the showbag from the Australian Pavilion, which had "indigenous rights" written on one side, and "refugee rights" on the other. It's fortunate that the Australia Council doesn't depend on Peter Dutton for their funding.

Although Tracey Moffatt's My Horizon paid homage to an entire raft of issues her two new photo-sequences had the visual allure of fashion photography. It's an ironic tactic meant to make us think about the squalid truths of racism and dispossession that lie behind the false glamour, but it's easier to swallow political messages when they aren't so beautifully wrapped.

Moffatt's taste for high stylisation and tongue-in-cheek humour may have won her friends in Venice, but it took her in the opposite direction to the obsessive bleakness that won the Golden Lion. Moffatt was too much of a natural comedian in a milieu hankering for a doom-laden philosopher.

There were plenty of other Australian artists showing their work in Venice. A contingent in the group exhibition, Personal Structures, included Reko Rennie, Juan Ford, Chen Ping and Angela Tiatia. Meanwhile, the indefatigable Andrew Rogers drew an impressive crowd when he showed a series of bronze and stainless steel sculptures, titled We Are, at Palazzo Mora. He even got Gerard Vaughan, director of the National Gallery of Australia, to make the opening address.

As this overview can't hope to mention more than a fraction of the work on display in Venice, I'll resort to a few special mentions. Firstly, for the Swiss Pavilion, for a film by Teresa Hubbard and Alexander Birchler on Giacometti's American mistress, Flora Mayo, partly narrated by the sculptor's illegitimate son, now in his 80s. It seems likely that Giacometti never knew about the child who would trace his mother's descent from mid-western wealth and privilege to Parisian Bohemia to a low rent apartment in LA.

Further plaudits for two outlandish shaggy dog stories – George Drivas' Laboratory of Dilemmas, in the Greek pavilion; and The Aalto Natives, by Nathaniel Mellors and Erkka Nissinen, in the Finnish pavilion. Where the former posed as a documentary portrait of a revolutionary biologist, the latter was an extended spoof on the Finnish condition.

There was also a lot to like about Mark Bradford's work in the United States pavilion, where the political messages never detracted from a series of highly tactile abstract paintings and sculptural installations. The Russians too, made an impact, with three dynamic presentations, the most compelling being Grisha Bruskin's white, model-like sculptures – reflections on political power in the form of reliefs and teeming dioramas.

With the world in a state of political confusion it was inevitable that this year's Biennale would rehearse the age-old dilemma as to whether art has the capacity to change our lives or is fated to merely reflect them. At the very least we might expect artists to provide a message of hope, a vision of transcendent beauty, or a sense of humour in an anxious age. It's too easy to mistake bleakness for profundity when what we really want is to be transported, like Alice, to the other side of the mirror.

#notes #venice biennale #la biennale di venezia #biennalearte2017 #review #the sydney morning herald #john mcdonald

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krs724490 · 5 years

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4/18/19

iMom,

I know as a mother you’re probably very concerned about who I’m dating, who I’m gonna end up with. Especially because you and dad got divorced and you don’t want me to make the same mistakes. I just know you care very much about who I end up with and what they’re like. I feel the need to explain Dan to you. I knew I wouldn’t be able to articulate it properly if I were to talk to you about it or something would come out wrong so I thought the best way would be to type it.

I feel like I should start by saying that I don’t really believe in relationships. I always tell my friends to break up with their boyfriends or if a boy is even slightly disrespecting one of my friends I say its not worth it. I feel like I wasted a lot of time with Collin and I felt very free after we broke up and I think every girl should experience that. I think that boys aren’t worth the trouble that we go through on a daily basis. I think life is calmer and better lived single. I genuinely believe this. Like I think that I could be single for life and be happy. I never really sought out boys because of this, they always just somehow fell on my lap. This is what happened with Dan. Over the summer we had good chemistry and it came out of nowhere and it felt natural so I went with it.

I’m going to tell you things at first that you won’t really like, but I promise there’s a good ending.

So I was with Dan over the summer and he was kind of the jokester funny guy that everyone liked. Kind of like the class clown type, only a little different because he’s not super talkative but when he does talk he’s telling a joke. He also drank a lot. He was a frat boy. His frat was kicked off campus last year (not because of him for other things that other boys did) so he’s not in a frat anymore, but he was a frat guy. So he partied a lot. As you may know this is not my scene at all. I don’t really like to drink. I don’t go out. So I was with Dan over the summer because we had good chemistry, but I didn’t really think it was going to go anywhere after the summer because he was such a party guy and I wasn’t. All the people at the internship knew this too. They knew I didn’t like to drink and they knew that he did. A few days before the internship ended he asked me to be his girlfriend. I knew he liked me a lot, so maybe I should’ve seen it coming, but I was surprised and flattered. Also I’m too scared and nice to say no. Also I did like him a lot... I knew it was a bad idea but I couldn’t help it. I said yes. So now I have this boyfriend that I know I shouldn’t have. But texting him was so much fun and I wanted to go to visit him at school and I was excited so I went with it. So I went to his school for the first time. After that I knew why he such a party guy. All anyone does at Indiana is party. I met his friends who partied a lot. No one went to class it seemed like. I know this isn’t an excuse for him, but I understood more the culture of it all and the people he was surrounded by who encouraged him to be that way.

You should also know that Dan’s parents are mega mega strict. So hard on him. In high school he was barely allowed to leave the house, they read his text messages, he was always in trouble, they didn’t trust him and that made him upset. So when he got to college he went crazy. It was too much freedom for him and he fell in with the wrong crowd. He’s super super smart. One of the smartest people I know. He’s curious about everything. He knows a lot about random physics stuff. He also wishes he studied engineering. He likes computer programming and he’s good at solving problems. He’s obsessed with technology and what the world’s gonna look like with new inventions. He likes to think big picture. He really admires people like Steve Jobs and Elon Musk. He’s a nerd really. He spends his free time watching their interviews and listening to podcasts about technology and the stock market.

Continuing with our story. So I visited him in Bloomington and he came to Ann Arbor and things were good we were having fun. He stopped drinking and going out with his friends because he was dating me and didn’t really see the point in doing any of that. But he still just wasn’t driven like me. He wasn’t so into school. He didn’t have very much energy because he ate unhealthy although he did lift weights a lot. When I went to visit him sometimes I would get upset because we would watch TV for a long time and I can’t sit still like that. And I just thought it was never going to work. At first I thought that I would just date him for a little and have fun with him because we had so much fun, but not be with him forever.

So I broke up with him one day because I didn’t want to do it anymore. I explained to him why. I told him we were too different and I didn’t think it was going to work. He was upset because he never knew that I felt that way. I never told him I didn’t like watching tv or that I didn’t like his lifestyle because I wasn’t good at voicing my opinion. I just let it build up inside of me and then broke up with him instead. I told him it just wasn’t going to work. We cried about our break up together. We were both sad and it was so weird. We were crying to each other about how we couldn’t deal with our own break up. A weird day. but then I said ok lets stop talking lets just talk again when we hear back from DISH about our offers. Then, of course, the next day DISH started giving people offers. So he called me to ask me about it and we talked for 3 hours like we never even broke up. we didn’t even mention the fact that we broke up the day before. and i was so happy he called. i ran into the house and i was like guys!! dan called!!!!! and all my friends rolled their eyes at me because they knew we just broke up. but i was happy to talk to him. We stayed broken up though. That was until that same weekend when I was tailgating I got sad because Dan was supposed to come visit me that weekend and i missed him. so i called him and got back together with him.

he promised me that he was going to be different. I remembered you telling me that boys never change so i was skeptical but i was willing to see what would happen. I always told him I didn’t want him to change for me. I told him I wanted him to be happy and live his life the way he wanted and not to do anything for me. If he wanted to party, then he should go party and do what he wants. I didn’t want him to change for me because i thought he might end up resenting me for keeping him from his friends and having fun. and he always said hes not changing his life for me. he’s doing it for himself because he hasn’t liked the way hes been living and he knows he needs to change it because it doesnt feel good. he was happy to make changes. he was actually kind of depressed living the way he did the first few years of college. he thinks drinking is an escape to not deal with things that need to be dealt with.

and he’s been taking baby steps ever since. he is honestly working so hard. it is kind of crazy, i think he might be taking it too far. he changed his whole diet. he eats only healthy foods. and of course he’s a nerd so he did a bunch of research on what he should be eating and he makes sure to get certain amounts of protein etc... he doesn’t hang out with the boys that have bad habits. When he does see his friends he invites them to play soccer with him so that he knows they wont be drinking. he single handedly did his senior capstone group project because the other kids didn’t care about it. one time another kid showed up to help him with it and the kid was drunk so dan sent him home. hes trying to pull himself out of a bad situation.

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the-record-columns · 7 years

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Sept. 20, 2017: Columns

When I delivered groceries...

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

A few years ago I got a call from Kay Ball, informing me that she and her sister, Brenda, had sold the old Thrift Super Market building on the corner of Fourth Street and C streets in North Wilkesboro.

As I have often written in this space, I got a job there in the early 60's, bagging groceries and doing odd jobs. The store was operated by the girls' parents, H.D., and Ann Ball - an interesting couple to say the least.

A few years ago, when Ann died, I was honored to speak at her funeral and I took that opportunity to remind those gathered, who knew them best, of Mr. Ball's proclivity for being, to say the least, a bit conservative with his money. Ann, on the other hand, had a heart as big as all outdoors and would as soon give things away as would to sell them - most especially to someone in need.

When I went to the store to see Kay that day, it was sad to see the building in such disrepair, but it still brought back a gazillion memories. I met folks there as a teenager I was able to stay in touch with for the rest of their lives. In fact, with the recent passing of Blair Gwyn, I think his widow, Florence, is the last remaining of the neighborhood customers I came to know and care about.

Among the things Kay and Brenda had saved for me that day was the cart I used to push groceries out to cars in the parking lot as well as use for deliveries to shut-in neighbors. They only had two of them, bought when the store was first built in the mid-50's, and I now have one of them as yet another prize possession here at The Record.

It was the people living in the neighborhood that I saw most often and came to know and enjoy best. Mary Moore Hix lived up on D Street and was clearly one of my favorites. "Sis" to most who knew her, and Mrs. Hix to me, was always in good spirits and on the go. The year I was to graduate from high school, Mrs. Hix took me aside at the Thrift one day and told me to "…be sure and send a graduation invitation to all these old ladies who shop here, and it will be the best investment you've ever made."

I did, and it was.

Two blocks away on C Street was the office of Dr. E. S. Cooper, who was one of the very first chiropractors to move to Wilkes County. Dr. and Mrs. Cooper were regulars at the store, and I especially remember them both as having beautiful white hair, and being very quiet and easy going. Across C Street from the Coopers was Mr. Rob Parker, as noisy as the Coopers were quiet. Mr. Parker knew that my father was a Baptist preacher and he would try to get my goat by coming into the store singing aloud, "The preacher in the pulpit, preaching mighty bold. Preaching for the money, caring nothing for the soul." Mr. Parker had a woodworking shop behind his house, and he would sometimes let me run the lathe. He made a small table that I bought for my mother for Christmas one year, and it was a prized possession of hers for the rest of her life.

I would push that grocery cart as far Emma Day's house on D Street across from the First Baptist Church, and it was a delivery to Mrs. Day that I will never forget. She was planning on making kraut and had ordered a bunch of cabbage from Mr. Ball. That cart would hold eight full grocery bags, and this day it was full of nothing but cabbage. It was heavy. It was hot. I was scrawny, and by the time I got to Mrs. Day's house I was soaked in sweat. I then had to carry all eight bags of cabbage back into her kitchen and presented her the bill.

Mrs. Day pulled a head of cabbage out of one of the bags and immediately stated, "This will not do."

She then pulled out a knife that could very well have come out of a slasher movie and begin to chop the bottom leaves off head after head of cabbage. When finished, she instructed me to have Mr. Ball weigh the cabbage she was returning and bring her and updated bill.

Mr. Ball may have been close with his money, but he met his match in Emma Day.

One of my regulars was Bessie Johnson. Bessie lived on the corner of Fifth and C Streets in an old house Claude and Madge Canter had converted into apartments. Bessie Johnson lived upstairs, but how she ever got up there is still a matter of some question. Her false teeth were loose and rattled together as she spoke, and she had more ailments than anyone I had ever known. If she told me once, she told me a hundred times as I puffed up those steps with bags of groceries, "Kenny, I sure do appreciate you bringing those things home for me, because it would surely kill me to go up and down those steps another time."

But, by far, my favorite delivery was when I got to take a load of groceries to the home of Miss Katie Whittington on Main Street, or B Street as it was known then. In addition to being a downhill run when fully loaded, and an empty run on the return, going to Miss Katie's house was like a trip to Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Along with her daughter, Laura Belle, Miss Katie Whittington had a well-deserved reputation for cakes, pies, pastries and wonderful good nature. Whenever I would go to their house, I was guaranteed a sweet treat of some description. I noted with great sadness that Miss Katie's home fell victim to a

wrecking ball, and is now just a grassy lot.

It was a different time, a slower time. A time when every child knew every neighbor and those neighbors made you feel welcome in their home. A time when a 15-year-old kid delivering a cart full of groceries knew he could go in the back door without even knocking.

I miss those days.

What you don't transform you will transmit….

By LAURA WELBORN

Matthew 18:21 When Peter asked Jesus how often should I forgive someone who sins against me? As many as seven times? Jesus said to him, "not seven times but seventy-seven times."

Its scary to think that it takes 77 times to be able to let go of the hurt, not respond to the pain or act out destructively. Our heart is the center of our will and where our intention lives, which is where we start with our heart and intentionally begin the process of reconciliation. As everyone knows it is never easy and the hard part is the part of letting go of the hurt. If we go back to the saying what you don't transform you will transmit, then by not letting go and doing something with the hurt we will hurt, others through our own pain.

Forgiveness is not a weapon to be used against someone but a road to our own redemption. In the book "Forgiveness" Desmond Tutu talks about a 4 fold path to forgiveness. The first step is in the telling of the story. I think it is important not to get lost in this step because sometimes telling the story reinforces our hurt and minimizes our part in the hurt. Therefore openness and a willingness to take responsibility of our role in the hurt is critical. Acknowledging our actions is the key to when we can transform a situation/hurt into a greater good.

The next step is naming the hurt, and this is when the introspection of what the ultimate harm is. I think this is one of the hardest steps because often what I am reacting to is superficial and what hurt the most is what I bury. It means looking at myself and acknowledging my vulnerabilities to be able to name what hurt the most. In other words it means looking beyond what we initially present as the problem.

Being ready to forgive is one thing, but to let it go is quite another issue. So often people will say I can forgive, but I can't forget. Forgetting to me means letting it go so I can forget. Now the lesson is what I hope to hold on to, but how that lesson happened I hope I can forget. It is important in this step to look at your resources, who in your life can help you move beyond the hurt? Who can help you feel loved when you are in pain so you can move beyond it? Accessing our resources does mean exposure but it is having a safe place to land and finding someone who helps us not crash and burn in our landing from the hurt.

The last step is to renew/release the relationship. This means you can step back and release the relationship with someone without holding resentment and bitterness and choose not to renew the relationship.

If we look at the community resiliency model it essentially takes us to a place where we can use our "protective factors" to reduce the risk of harm. Protective Factors are essentially our support system- who we let into our lives in a meaningful way, our ability to cope and manage uncomfortable situations in a meaningful way. Another protective factor is our own sense of purpose and how we live within our own values. Self Esteem is ultimately if we believe we can overcome our challenges, flaws and mistakes which leads to healthy thinking. Healthy thinking becomes a protective factor when we do not stay stuck on our mistakes but are able to recognize our personal strengths and weaknesses rationally.

Often I think if I have to forgive someone 77 times, I might as well just forget it (the hurt), or maybe I will just figure its not worth the effort to get upset.

It’s in the Bible, look it up… HEATHER DEAN REPORTER/PHOTOJOURNALIST

Rev. James Martin is an American Jesuit priest, a writer, and editor-at-large of the Jesuit magazine America residing in Manhattan, and known for his outspokenness for accepting all of god's children, especially the outcast. He has made the news recently with the release of his new book entitled "Building a Bridge", in which urges the Roman Catholic Church to find a common ground with LGBT Catholics who feel estranged from the church because of social and religious stigma and hopefully create dialogue. The subject would ruffle some feathers he knew, but so did the son of god. Never mind that his Jesuit superior read the manuscript and all was found to be in line with church teachings and was even endorsed by several cardinals. Yet, despite the fact that many parents and friends of the LGBT community appreciating the brave move, and encouraged by Rev. Martin's accepting words, the backlash came. It came in the form of insults, hateful rhetoric, people of his own faith labeling him a heretic, and even death threats.

People of his own faith. Christians.

So here's the thing:

I grew up Christian, believing in the teachings Christ, learning to turn the other cheek, hoping to become a martyr for God, and to above all, show love and compassion. In the end, I was betrayed by hypocrisy and misogyny from those I trusted most. And yet, I hold nothing against the Christian religion or against their version of God in general.

Why? Because Jesus said not to be a jerk and that's what I try to live by. (It's in the Bible, look it up...)

He also said to love

your enemies. (Luke 6:27-36)

He also said that in the least you do this to others you do it to me. (Matt. 25:40)

The good book also says that the Old Testament Laws (over 600 of them) are now void because Jesus paved the path of faith with love, and to obey the Christ, was the New Testament Law. (Gal. chapters 3-6)

So I have never understood how "the good Christian" can be so judgmental and unkind, claiming it to be a part of protecting their religion.

Jesus never said you were going to like what

happened in the world. He laid the groundwork of how to deal with it, and he said not to let it get to you, because GOD was the end-all-be-all when it came down to judging and deciding he would make it into the kingdom of heaven. (James 4:12)

So why all the hate and angst with the gay, black, immigrant and Wiccan community, or anyone who does not hold true to your version of theology? Jesus was chastised for hanging out with the "rogues and scoundrels" if you recall.

Sidebar: Those of you who believe that Jesus is coming back, how exactly do you expect him to look? What if he comes back as a Middle Eastern man in a turban again? What if he chooses to be a woman, a person of color, or even a hobo?

The reason I love that the good Reverend has written such a book, is because it's objective. You can take the LGBT out of the conversation, and insert race, alternate religion, gender etc., and the same question begs to be asked: Are you being Christ like?

"If we can't even begin a dialogue without a charge of heresy, then we need to take a good look at how we understand the gospel." -Reverend Martin.

Love, no matter what.

It's in the Bible, look it up.

Another hidden agenda . . . very real and very dangerous

EARL COX

Special to The Record

On the road to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization's brave new world economy, democratic educational systems are speed bumps. To remove these obstacles, UNESCO has devised a compulsory global education scheme that exploits and politicizes how and what the next generation will learn-thus molding compliant "global citizens."

UNESCO's Constitution describes one of its primary roles as spreading knowledge to the world, and giving a "fresh impulse to education." But there's a sting-UNESCO's state-controlled, global education plan is subservient to its overarching aim for world monetary control-the New International Economic Order or NIEO.

The NIEO "sacrifices education" to redistributing developed, industrial nations' wealth and resources

to underdeveloped nations, said former policy advisor Thomas G. Gulick. The new monetary system is a planned, socialist world economy under the jurisdiction of a U.N. economic "superagency." U.S. and Western industrial nations would finance this "global welfare state." In short, Gulick said, "NIEO appears to be UNESCO's hidden agenda."

Education to sustain the NIEO

This agenda has been long in the making. In the '70s, Director General Amadou-Mahtar M'Bow targeted UNESCO's education and social science sectors as the "main focus" to achieve the NIEO. Thus, politicization gradually permeated all UNESCO sectors, Gulick said.

The NEIO was established in 1974 by a U.N. General Assembly resolution. Though updated in 2011, "not very much" changed, said professors Vinod Aggarwal and Steve Weber for the Harvard Business Review; "NIEO demands … are almost exactly the same as Supachai Panitchpakdi, head of UNCTAD, [called] for" in 2012-a global financial system to benefit the poor.

The prickly issue of

sovereignty

The NIEO rejects all sovereignty but its own. Presenting the "roadmap for global education" in 2015, Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon and UNESCO Director General Irina Bokova said: "We…entrust UNESCO …to lead … the Education agenda ….to reach our ambitious goal by 2030." Within this framework, "globalized schools worldwide must reshape children's values to create "global citizens."

The UN 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development describes children and youth as "critical agents of change" to implement "the new global order." To this end, teacher trainees study NIEO, human rights, and situational-ethics lessons plans; the latter asserts decisions should be based on circumstances, not fixed principles. It rejects absolute moral principles such as G-d, or good and evil- ruling out most precepts of Judaism and Christianity.

Indoctrinating Young Minds: Scientific Humanism

Starting in the early '70s, UNESCO books and publications explored the idea

of a new educational order

based on scientific humanism.

This view rejects all religious

beliefs in a divine person or creed; it was slammed as "the breeding ground of intolerance," by educational psychologist W. D. Wall.

In brief, UNESCO educational literature advises parents not to teach their children religious moral principles, which Wall labels "moral indoctrination." This goes hand in hand with UN advocacy of mandatory sex education for children, beginning in pre-kindergarten.

Eroding moral foundations

According to a previous Fox News report, the UN recommends that children 5 to 8 be taught about gender violence and self-touch satisfaction. By 9, they'll learn about aphrodisiacs, homophobia, transphobia and abuse of power; at 12, contraception, and by age 15, "safe" abortions. Thus, the state usurps parents' rights to teach their children about moral choices and sex.

'Dry rot in academia'

What's happening on U.S. campuses is a microcosm of UNESCO's threat facing the world. Economist Thomas Sowell sounded the alarm on "the intellectual and moral dry rot" that spreads wherever "the groupthink of

the left substitutes for education."

Exposing students to different viewpoints was once thought a valuable part of education; "but that was before academia - and the education system - became a monopoly of the political left," he said. Regardless of whose views become a monopoly, education-and our children-suffer. Reducing Western democracies' support to an organization committed to the destruction of their economies and education is surely part of the remedy.

A rainy day at the Barber Shop and Peggy the witch

BY CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

I enjoy my visits to the barber shop for a variety of reasons. The more practical reason is to get a good haircut, but if you limit your experience to the utilitarian purpose of walking away with shorter hair one will surely miss out on a treasure trove of cultural edification awaiting. In other words, hold on to your hat, things may just get a little hairy.

It was on the raining morning that I returned to the Second Street Barber shop in North Wilkesboro, NC a two-seat shop where Gary and his son Josh Beshears spend their days keeping many of the citizens of their community neat and tight.

News coverage of the rage of hurricane IRMA was on the TV and both barber seats were busy when I arrived. The barber shop is the perfect place for a story teller to hang out and for those who prefer to listen it’s hard to find a better show. Barbershop storytelling is judged more so on delivery rather than verifiable facts. While a good tall tale is welcome and celebrated the more weighted issues of life are also part of conversation.

One customer was sharing the story of a recent heart problem that has changed his life. We all celebrated with him in that his only real vice to battle is a half-gallon of ice-cream every night. This real-life issue was talked about, but before long things shifted to the story of barber Josh as a young boy in school, when he wrote a story about Peggy the witch that lived in a shack on the side the mountain

As the story goes Gary takes young Josh on an adventure to the Big Ivy area which is near the Wilkes and Ashe County line to learn about the legend of Peggy the witch who apparently once lived in the region in the late 1800’s and possessed the ability to do many things including shape shifting in the form of various animals.

At a certain point in the trip Gary spots his pickup near Phillip’s Gap and yells out the window “Peggy,” and as if on cue a deer walks out of the woods and stands in the road in front of them and stairs at Gary and Josh, but did not come close to them and then walked away. Gary drives on, however Josh wants to see if it will happen again.

At first Gary did not want to call out again, Josh was persistent so Gary stopped again and yelled out Peggy. Once again, as if on cue, a Groundhog appeared in the road in front of them, stared at them and then walked away. This happened again with a rabbit. It was at this time, they decided not to call for Peggy again.

Josh and Gary both told me that this was a true story regarding the animals. Josh wrote the story down with more history about Peggy. The story of the animals and other stories of fear and dread that Peggy stirred in other locals was published in the book, Hometown Memories, Blue Ridge Tales, published 1996 page 64-65.

The good thing about waiting for the barber’s chair is that you get to hear all the great stories and you know it will soon be your turn for an old fashion hair cut including warm shaving cream on your neck with a straight razor perfect line. You also have a chance to share your tale of the day and if you need it, you’ve got a few pals who will listen when you need it most.

When done, my seat was filled by a NC Army Guardsman, he required a simple shave, but at the Second Street Barber Shop a quick visit is not really an option. The stories take too long and who would want to rush something so important.

When folk artist Charlie Frye heard this story, he was inspired to create a painting to accompany this column. Thanks Charlie!

Carl White is the executive producer and host of the award-winning syndicated TV show Carl White’s Life In the Carolinas. The weekly show is now in its eighth year of syndication and can be seen in the Charlotte viewing market on WJZY Fox 46 Saturday’s at 12:00 noon. For more on the show, visit www.lifeinthecarolinas.com, You can email Carl White at [email protected].

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cadenthouseofcastiel-blog · 7 years

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Save Me, I’m Drowning in Myself (A Non-Fiction Essay)

Her pulse stopped. Samantha used some type of hand-gun, and it was apparently a gruesome sight. The police came to my house on October 27, 2008 to notify my mother that my 14-year-old sister committed suicide. Her full name was Samantha Lynn Bell, but she preferred Sam or Sammy. I can’t explain what thoughts ran through her head, though she left a note that she could’ve been written years ago, for all I know. I can’t know or explain her thoughts, but I can say with unfortunate confidence that I know why she chose to sink rather than swim. Everyone has a lighthouse, but hers was as dysfunctional and dark as the sea in which she swam.

Trying to understand my family was like trying to find the shore in the middle of the dysfunctional, dark ocean. It wasn’t going to happen. Ever. My two oldest sisters share a father, then there’s Samantha’s father and finally mine. Sam loved her dad and was neutral towards our sisters’ dad. As for mine, all I can say is that she hated him- or so I thought. I remember the attempts she made to get away from our mother and my father. She ran away from home a few times and she hid in her room or stayed at friends’ houses until things got better.

As we both came to learn, running away doesn’t fix anything and often makes things worse, but dodging them doesn’t do any good either. My father was a problem we couldn’t run from or dodge. Both resulted in some form of abuse. Both of our parents were borderline alcoholics and did drugs. We hated them and, to this day, I find that I will put my parents’ pictures face down. I do it because I still hold resentment for them and what they did to us. I don’t remember it clearly, but I found the entry in Sam’s diary. This entry unlocked the safe where I hid the memory and it became as clear as daylight.

“Dear Journal, Tonight, what can I say? Oh, I know where to start. Well, first Mitch shows up and decides to yell at mom… Mitch, he needs to control his temper…September 2005, or around there, Mitch shows up right after work, he got off early, and comes here mad as hell… he decides he is going to take it out on mom… the following happens in domino effect: yelling, name-calling, breaking dishes, and damaging the furniture, throwing mom onto a chair, not allowing her to move, making her let him spit all over her face, and using language that I never even knew existed. Later, I snuck the phone into me and Tayler’s room and hid it in my headboard. After lying in bed and listening to him beat my mother up and trying to keep Tayler calm, I hear a huge bang from downstairs that causes the house to shake.

“Next, I give Tayler the phone… I creep downstairs and catch a glimpse of mom on the ground and Mitch yelling and spitting on her non-stop. (Did I mention all the furniture is turned over and glasses are broken?) Quickly after seeing that, I grab a near-by umbrella (just in case) and he turns around because I bump some video tapes. Next thing I know, he jumps at me, takes the umbrella, and swings it toward me asking me if I was going to hit him with it. I say no and he lunges at me again and I run… Next [Mitch] just stops everything and screeches down the road going a hundred miles per hour. Next me, mom, and Tayler sit on mom’s bed, almost in tears, and try to comfort each other. Things like this had happened all my life, but it never got that bad.

Sincerely, Samantha Bell”

We all hated the fear my father brought to our lives and sometimes we hated him as a person. People can change, but he wasn’t proving that. Honestly, I started to lose my faith in humanity. My mom would just sit there and take whatever he threw at her, which is why my faith was hanging by a thread. Sam felt like she was the problem in our family, but the drugs were changing our parents. She knew they were users. Later, she went to live with her dad, but he had no clue how to raise a teenaged girl. She felt like there was nowhere she fit in, so she decided to stop taking up space.

“Dear God, I bet it is hard for you to love all of everybody in the world. There are only four people in our family and I can never do it. Nan”

That is a thought that I share with Nan. When I was little, I thought my parents were the best. As I got older, I developed a fear of my parents. I resented the explosive dynamic they encouraged and them. Children aren’t supposed to be afraid of their parents, but they should be afraid of punishments.

Sam was one of the few things that I didn’t fear. I believed in her as my all-powerful force, but the ‘real’ all powerful force left me skeptical. I thought if God was real, He would relieve, or end, all the pain and fear of my early childhood. God heard my prayers. He chose a permanent and gradual solution. Slowly, unto my knowledge, my parents were dying and so was my sister. Sam’s death was the ‘solution’ to her problems, not mine.

My dad died of heart failure and my mother died of colon cancer. She refused to lose me, though she didn’t think that through. She knew the doctors would find out that she was a recovering drug addict and send the Department of Human Services (DHS) to take me away. We had already had DHS called on my parents for the Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) incidents. I believe my parents were excellent actors because they only received warnings. If DHS would have done something more than warnings, I don’t think I would feel so damaged.

I was a very timid child, but I still had a thorough curiosity about everything. I was convinced that there was something wrong with me and, so far, I’ve been right. Apparently, “depression, suicidal behaviors, anxiety, fear, phobias, insomnia, tics, bed-wetting, and low self-esteem” are problems that I shouldn’t have had. Unfortunately, the only one I have gotten over is the bed-wetting (Fantuzzo/Mohr, 27). I was afraid and suspicious of everyone, no exceptions. What kept me going was my lighthouse; my aunt had a lamp shaped like one. It lit a halo above her head as she slept with me, a child afraid of the dark. I loved her and still do, but she could only protect me for so long and only do so much.

Only the parents can prevent children from experiencing IPV. Some cases of IPV start even before a child is born, when they’re in utero, and then the child may be scarred for life. “Infants who hear or see unresolved angry conflict or witness a parent being hurt may show symptoms of PTSD, including eating problems, sleep disturbances, lack of typical responses to adults and loss of previously acquired developmental skills” (Carpenter/Stacks).

These symptoms don’t simply disappear as the child gets older either. These develop into the two categories, internal and external behavior problems, and have symptoms like “social withdrawal, increased arousal, hyper-vigilance, exaggerated startle response, and sleep difficulties” (Carpenter/Stacks). I believe that kids with external behavior problems are better off. They take all their aggression and push it out through tantrums and sometimes fights (Fantuzzo/Mohr). I know I shouldn’t encourage bullying. It’s hard not to when I know what the other side of the coin is like. From what I researched and experienced of the two, it’s easier to go to anger management classes than to a psychiatric hospital.

The children who develop in these violent homes have no idea that they’re damaged, they only know that they’re different from a majority of their peers. Internal children, children with symptoms of internal behavior problems, are left in a dark room, where there is no furniture or light, and everything is a monster. Meanwhile, External children are in pit of snakes where everything is a threat and either has to be taken down or the children themselves get taken down. Both are always looking for a way out. They don’t realize that, they just do it. It’s called hope. Sadly, neither will ever find that blinding light called the sun because where they are, the sun can’t reach. Most people call it Hell, but the real Hell is inside the mind, where even their own thoughts seem to be attacking them.

These children never know that their parents are lurking in that darkness they trapped the children and themselves in. That ignorance makes them resent their parents for getting to be in the light. No one gets out unless someone intervenes and cuts through the darkness with the light from their lighthouse. Even if it’s possible, it can takes years for anyone to conjure up a light bright enough to cut through bulletproof darkness.

Social Services and experts should continue their studies and create awareness, but nothing will change with awareness alone. Children need to recognize and understand what they’re experiencing. Sam understood and she chose a different way to escape the pain. I hope no one else tries it because it’s not fair to those of us who are left behind. Those who are, often blame themselves. They hate everyone and everything even more or they stop trusting people.

I was one of the kids who felt responsible for the death of someone who gave up a minute too soon. Maybe we’re too young or have been hurt too much, but neither Nan nor I can grasp how to love the ones who hurt us. There are still lingering symptoms and thoughts that complicate my life, but I don’t struggle with things like bed-wetting anymore. That simple fact gives me hope. Someday we can all finally be illuminated in the beams of lighthouses. Then, we can use our own lights to shine on others to let them know it’ll all be over someday. Every ocean and sea has a shore and where there’s land, there’s people waiting.

Works Cited

Bell, Samantha Lynn. Personal journal. November 18, 2005.

Carpenter, Georgia L., and Ann M. Stacks. "Developmental Effects of Exposure to Intimate Partner Violence in Early Childhood:." Children and Youth Services Review 31.8 (2009): 831-39. 25 Mar. 2009. Web. Feb.-Mar. 2013.

Fantuzzo, John W., and Wanda K. Mohr. "Prevalence and Effects of Child Exposure to Domestic Violence." JSTOR. ITHAKA, Winter 1999. Web. 06 Mar. 2013.

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Same notes as before. Take it as you will. Reblog if you like. This is for all of you to know that you’re not alone.

#you're not alone #love #comfort #spn #spnfamily #spn family #supernatural #supernatural family

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