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xxisxxisxxis · 4 years

Text

Gateway Drug | Part Twenty-Nine

Table of Content or Part Twenty-Eight

Pairing: Douglas Booth!Nikki Sixx x OC

Word Count: 4.6k

Warning(s): Language, Drug use, Sexual content

A/N: A day late but I hope you enjoy it, it's decently light hearted because the next chapter will be the car accident. Have a good night, you guys, and thank you for the support!

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"You're fucking overreacting, Vivian!" Nikki snaps at me as we stomp to the car and I stop to turn at him.

"I'm overreacting? To what, exactly, Nikki? You giving out intimate pictures of your wife—which perverts our marriage, by the way—or you entertaining the disrespectful groupie?! Because you managed to spit in my face twice in ten minutes!"

"I perverted our marriage? It was a fucking picture, not a fucking train that we ran on you, Vivian! Get over yourself!"

"You get over yourself and fucking admit you're wrong and you know it!"

"I fucked up when I was fucked up! That doesn't count!"

"No, it does, because you know there's a chance you can do something wrong every time you get shit faced but you ignore it and do it anyway so using that as an excuse is completely invalid and simply just you refusing to take the blame, as always!" I throw my hands up and start towards the car again.

"You are such a spoiled little brat!" He argues, snatching at my wrist, making me spin around to face him. "You're so use to people kissing your fucking feet for your forgiveness that you act like the sky's fucking falling when someone won't do whatever the fuck you want!"

"Oh, really?!"

"Yes, really, and part of that's my fault because I've gone out of my way to keep you happy at times and it still is never enough! You're always gonna find something to be pissed at me about!"

"Do you hear yourself talking, Nikki?! When is the last time you have done anything for me—that I've actually asked for?! I didn't want my own fucking expensive car. So don't throw that in my face like I should be perfectly fine with what you do and how you choose to humliate me just because I'm lucky enough to be married to hot-shot rockstar Nikki Sixx, and I could care less about the money because I'd rather have a relatively sober husband over a fucking corvette any day!"

"So all of this comes back to heroin?!" He raises his brows. "Your prudeness and insecurity is my fault because I shoot up sometimes?! They see naked girls all the fucking time, Vivian!" He points in the direction of the Rainbow. "Don't get pissy over this just because you think your pussy is so fucking special that nobody but me can see it because I promise you, I've had better!"

I can tell he regrets saying it the second it leaves his mouth, but it's a low blow that shatters my pride.

I just step past him, letting out a tired breath, heading back to the Rainbow.

"Where are you going?" He asks me.

I just ignore him.

I stayed with Vince and Sharise that night, and the night after that, and the night after that...okay...I stayed at Vince's for three weeks, and it drove Nikki up the wall because Vince was becoming his least favorite but he stilled liked him enough to give him a picture of me masturbating so...

Three weeks in which Nikki was apparantly going out of his mind on heroin to hide the fact I had temporarily left him.

I just wanted a sincere apology where he admitted his heroin use was beginning to affect him more and more and was creating strife in our marriage.

But I never got that kind of apology until 1988.

"Fuck!" Sharise lets out when a loud pop sounds through the kitchen while she's cooking bacon.

Her blonde hair is in a messy knot on her head and she's not wearing anything but one of Vince's t-shirts and a pair of panties.

"I offered to help you." I remind her, cracking another egg.

Another pop has her jumping away from the stove and crossing her arms, looking at me as if begging to switch places.

"Here." I move aside and she sighs with relief as I head to the bacon that's beginning to pop ridiculously fast, and smoke up.

There's a ring at the doorbell.

"I'll get it." Sharise tells me, running her hands under the stream of the sink to get the raw egg off before another ring ensues then another, and another. "Jeez, someone's impatient." She mumbles, heading out the kitchen and down the stairs to the door.

I'm in the process of flipping the bacon over when I hear Sharise call, "Viv, it's for you."

I move the pan off the burner and head to the door, seeing Nikki tower over Sharise, sunglasses protecting his eyes from hangover induced light sensetivity.

I resist the urge to tackle him because of how much I've missed him.

Sharise leaves us to it to go finish cooking and I cross my arms and look up at Nikki, waiting for him to say something.

"Are you coming back home or should I start selling your shit?" He asks me smartly and I raise a brow.

"Are you sorry for being a complete dick?"

"Wasn't really being a complete dick, only a partial dick. You haven't seen me hit peek dickness, yet." He replies and I go to slam the door in his face but he stops me, keeping it open with his hand and I let out a deep sigh.

"Seriously, either apologize and mean it or piss off." I snap at him and he raises a brow, his jaw, that's lightly padded with alcohol bloat, rolls and he impatiently taps his booted foot.

"I'm trying to apologize but you won't come home." He argues.

"Okay, normally I'd consider you screwing me into next week, an apology. This time it's not." I state.

"It's not sex." He assures me.

"Then what is it?" I ask and he smirks.

"Get your shit together and come find out." He suggests and I think about it for a moment.

"I swear if we get home and you pull your prick out like it's God's gift to me, you and your right hand will be very well acquainted until further notice." I promise and he scoffs.

"We already are."

I get my things together and tell Sharise I'll be right back to finish breakfast, and when Nikki and I head back to the apartment, I notice we're going the wrong way.

"I think you need to turn around." I tell him, glancing around at our surroundings.

"What?" He replies.

"We're going the wrong way. We need to turn around, Babe." I repeat what I said and he brushes me off.

"Just enjoy the fucking ride, Viv. We'll get home when we get home." He shrugs with a smile.

I just decide he's lost some more of his mind and go along with it.

When we approach Valley Vista Boulavard which is near by Sherman Oaks, I get aggravated.

"Nikki. You wanted to go home. I left Sharise to go home. Let's freaking go home." I tell him harshly, picking at my nails.

"That's what we're doing." He explains casually and I look at him, confused.

"What?"

The Corvette pulls to the gated driveway of a mansion we've passed by once before, and Nikki rolls the window down and punches in a code before the gate opens and we pull into the driveway.

"K. We're home." He pipes, uncranking the car and getting out.

14432 Valley Vista Boulevard in Van Nuys was a mansion we had passed by one time. And in that one time we passed by, I made a comment about how beautiful it was.

Nikki took that, and ran with it.

I look at Nikki, my mouth parted in shock as he nervously awaits my reaction.

"Well...?" He asks cautiously.

I can't speak.

Tears fill my eyes, all his wrong doings are thrown out the window because he paid attention and remembered a single comment I made in passing, nearly a year ago.

"I..." I exhale, taking another deep breath. "...T-This is our's? You...you bought us a house?"

"I bought you a house." He corrects me. "Before you squirt in our driveway, just wait until you see the inside."

He tugs me behind him, unlocking the front door, and I let out another breath.

It's stunning.

Going through the foyer, kitchen, living room, dining room, upstairs, and the three bedrooms, my mind runs wild with possibilities.

Friends over for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter—Nikki will obviously give me a hard time with the latter one...

Our kids running through and ransacking the place while I try to cook dinner and Nikki tries to write new music.

Nikki's going on and on about contacting an interior decorator as soon as possible, pointing out what bits and pieces he wants to add and where.

I quit listening halfway through and just stare at him with this happy smile on my face.

I was so, so, so naive. I was acting like Tansy. Every screw up was suddenly erased all because of a good deed.

I remember Vince would go city to city when Mötley went on tour and tell a stripper from every city from the local club he was head over heels in love with them and wanted to marry them.

These girls would quit their jobs, leave their homes, and pack their bags, and show up somewhere down the line of shows in different cities and try to see Vince. Fred Saunders would tell Vince their name, and Vince would claim he'd never met them.

And he'd laugh over the fact that they were that desperate to drop everything for him.

They weren't desperate. They just had hope.

People think I stayed with Nikki after everything he did because I was that desperate.

I stayed with him because I had hope that no matter how bad it got, if I just held on a little longer, it would eventually get better.

If you give a woman a shred of hope to have something they really want, the only way they'll let go of it, is if you damn near kill them.

Nikki getting me that house was my shred of hope I had that we were going to be okay.

Knowing what I know now about what that house would become for Nikki, I would've stayed in that shitty apartment with Robbin Crosby any day.

"What is it?" Nikki finally asks me, noticing me staring at him.

I just bite my lip and pull him closer to me by his studded belt and he takes the hint and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me against him.

Our lips brush together teasingly before my teeth tug at his lip.

Tongues meet each other as he takes a couple steps back, and I shove him down to the couch, the both of us wearing eager smiles as his hands pull me down to straddle him.

I push his jacket off his shoulders and he tugs my t-shirt over my head, my red hair spilling over my bare chest.

His shirt is the next to go, the warmth of his skin radiating through me when he slides his arms against my back, pulling my chest flush against him while his fingers tangle in my hair and pull my head back so his tounge and teeth can mark up my neck.

I let out a quiet moan, looking up to see myself in a high ceiling that's one huge mirror consisting of smaller mirror tiles.

"Nikki..." I pat his bicep and he stops his attention to me and looks up, too.

"There's one in every room." He explains lowly, his lips brushing against my jaw and I raise a brow at the idea of utilizing every single mirrored-ceiling room in this house.

Good thing I'm decently confident in my skin because I'm going to be seeing a lot of myself, in different positions, at different angles.

My lips meet his again, my fingers catching in his tangled hair as I start grinding against the obvious tent in his pants.

He lets out a small groan, guiding my hips' movement as I dry hump him.

"Don't screw around and wet your pants before we even start." I advise in a mean little mock, my hand rubbing over the bulged leather before pulling slowly at the laces of his pants.

His hand grabs at mine, stopping me from going into his pants as his eyes narrow.

"That's not your's." He tells me, gauging my reaction.

I don't need him to get off. I'd prefer he be part of the process, though.

I just get off of him and shimy out of my pajama shorts.

Completely naked, now, I sit directly in front of him on the couch opposite of him and spread my legs, one at a time, seeing his expression change as if he's looking at the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

I smirk, my hands groping at my breasts, pinching at my nipples for a second, sending electric sparks straight to my clit.

I'm already soaked, but I feel another rush leave me as I focus on Nikki's stare, my fingers falling between my legs, rubbing at the nerves that shoot an intense feeling of a carnal need that can only be satisfied by one thing throughout my body.

I enter one finger into myself, and then another, my mouth opening when I curl them to hit that spot that has my bacl arching and my eyes rolling back while "Nikki" slips past my lips in a high pitched moan.

My hands are yanked away from me in a few seconds, my fingers being replaced by two thicker, longer didgets that go into me at a feverish pace, causing me to lurch forward.

"Oh, fuck, Nikki!" I cry out, the sound of him fingering me ringing through the room as his other hand keeps me sealed to the couch by wrapping around my throat just enough to keep me still.

"So fuckin' pretty." He tells me with a smirk, looking over my body and my face, fucking the life out of me with just two fingers.

My toes are curling, that spot within me continuing to be stimulated with sheer force.

"Play with it." He orders me and I listen, my fingers going to my aching clit, a sharp breath filling my lungs at the feeling. "God, you're such a bad little bitch when you want to be." He says through gritted teeth and I open my mouth to reply but I can't.

My orgasm creeps up on me out of nowhere and I drench his fingers as my legs spasm and my eyes roll back, a slew of curses tumbling from my mouth in the process.

I think that's the fastest I've ever came.

Nikki grins at me, getting his prick freed.

I lick my lips at the sight of precum dripping out of him and I'm on my knees before he even tells me to get there.

I push my hair back over my shoulders, wrapping my hand around the base of him and giving a few strokes, the liquid beading from his tip allowing him to be slickened up.

He breathes out, looking down at me through thick black hair, and I open my mouth and stick my tongue out to run it in a zig-zag motion up the underside of his length, teasingly.

I savor the taste of him when my tongue circles his tip before I start moving my mouth up and down his shaft.

"God, fuck, Viv..." He moans out, grasping my hair to thrust in to my mouth.

I take everything he gives, slober running out of my mouth and tears coming to my eyes when he pushes himself down my throat.

"Such a good girl." He praises me and my nails bite into his thighs as he lets me go.

I gasp for air, working him with my hand while I catch my breath.

When he holds himself out for me to start licking and sucking again, I open my mouth, but he moves away, grinning when I follow his movements to try to get him back in my mouth.

"You really are like a groupie slut, just for me." He chuckles out and I stand up and get on my tip toes, my lips brushing against his ear.

"Then fuck me like one."

He gets this mischevious smile on his face before kissing me heatedly.

He somehow leads me into the kitchen without breaking contact, spinning me around and bending me over the counter.

I gasp at the cold marble against my nipples but my mind is taken off of it when Nikki's hand comes down and leaves a bright red handprint on my ass.

Warm liquid drips down my legs and I arch my back and spread my legs to better accomadate him, looking over my shoulder at him jacking off a couple times.

He rubs his tip across my clit and my entrance before sliding in to the hilt in one rough stroke.

I'm not prepared, his girth stretching me deliciously, and he doesn't give me time to adjust before starting a long, rough, fast pace that has me clawing at the counter top for some stability as the sound of our skin hitting together fills the room.

"Hungry fucking cunt." He comments, his hands holding my hips in a vice grip.

"It feels so good, Nikki!" I gasp out, my eyes squeezed closed as more tears come to my eyes.

"It's all mine, isn't?" He asks me, his hand reaching down to rub feverishly at my clit while he drills into me and I borderline scream, every bone in my body shaking as I get ready to come apart again. "This pussy's all fucking mine."

"Yes!" I agree, tears rolling down my face as he relentlessly beats into me.

I'm going to be too sore to walk tomorrow. "Fuck, it's all fuckin' your's!" I sob as a fucking dam breaks between my legs and I'm releasing again, leaving a fucking puddle of cum in the kitchen floor.

Nikki gets off on this, and grunts as he spills himself into my abused sex.

We spent the rest of the night and early morning hours christening every room in the house, including the closets and garage.

The both of us collapse in the masterbedroom's closet floor, covered in sweat and panting.

Our mission to have sex in every room in the house is complete, the both of us are exhausted, and I can't feel my legs.

I turn over to look at him, my cheek against his chest as his arm snakes around my back while he tucks his other arm behind his head.

We've had small breaks in between each round and even took a power nap, and Nikki had a couple lines to keep him awake, before our last hurrah of the night in the closet.

"What time is it?" I ask him softly, sitting up and yawning.

"It was like, 3:45 thirty minutes ago." He mumbles, tiredly and I rub my eyes.

"I'm about to get in the bed." I tell him, going to stand up.

My legs give out on the way up and I fall back down, Nikki and I both laugh.

"No, I'm not." I whine out, and he sits up.

"C'mon, cripple." He stands, reaching down to pick me up and I wrap my arm around his shoulder, wincing a little when my thighs shift closely together, spurring on coming soreness to move through my legs.

I've definitely built muscle tonight.

Nikki puts me on the bed, helping me pull the comforter back, and tuck myself in before mumbling about having to get something out of his car and needing to piss.

He went and shot up, and then passed out on the couch.

I wake up, completely confused by my suroundings until I remember Nikki and I are the owners of a house, now.

Then another thought peers into my mind: how did he afford this?

I've been stressing out over telling him we have to pay a $350.00 ticket—that I need to go to the court house and explain I lost it and then pay it—because of a little financial instability, and he goes and buys an entire mansion.

I just let out a breath, deciding to ask about it later.

I reak of sex and I just want a shower—no, a bubble bath to soak my sore body in.

But first, I need some water.

I don't bother with clothes, stepping to kitchen, only to be met with Tommy, Robbin, Tansy, Sparkie, Sharise, Razzle and Andy McCoy.

A startled, short scream echoes through the house because I wasn't expecting anyone but Nikki to be here.

"Jesus, Viv!" Tommy rubs at his ear, wincing, not noticing I'm naked until I cover my chest. "Oh, uhh..." He stutters, not looking at me as he shrugs his jacket off.

"Okay, yeah, the pictures just don't do any justice." Robbin lets out with a smug smirk even though he's got his eyes on the ceiling, although it doesn't do any good because it's plastered in mirror tiling.

"What the hell are you doing here and where's Nikki?" I snap at them, once I cover up with Tommy's jacket.

"He and Vince are grabbing some things from the apartment that you two need here, and then they're making a booze and food run." Robbin explains.

"For what?"

"House warming party." Sharise explains.

"He didn't mention it to you?" Tansy asks and I scoff.

"He doesn't mention a lot to me." I grumble to myself, exhaling. "Whatever, I'm getting a shower. Don't break anything or I will mount your dicks to the wall." I promise to the guys, walking to our bathroom.

Once I'm out of the shower, and wrapped in a towel, Nikki's stepping in to the bathroom.

"Babe, I totally forgot to tell you." He explains, reffering to the party and I roll my eyes.

"Not a stranger to miscommunication in our relationship." I reply with a shrug, standing at the sink, looking at myself in the mirror.

"Yeah, but still." He counters, meeting my eyes in the steamed up mirror.

He's running his hands over my towel covered hips, pulling my ass into him suggestively, and my breath catches in my throat.

"Baby, no." I chuckle, turning to look at him, needing at least two days to even think about having anything inside of me.

"Viv, c'mon, I'll be gentle." He grins, raising his brows for a split second.

"Gentle isn't anywhere in your vocabulary, Nikki."

"I can be very gentle." He argues, and I give him a pointed look.

His lips meet mine, his hands picking up at the backs of my thighs, sitting me on the bathroom counter.

I'm uncovered as his hands brush my towel down, his lips pressing a trail down my neck, over my collar bone, to each hickey covered breast, to the bite mark shaped bruise over my rib that he gets strangly obsessed with when we're fooling around, down my stomach, the inside of my sore thighs, and I arch my back and gasp out when he presses a kiss between my legs.

He pulls away and stands back up, kissing me hotly, causing me to get flustered.

"See." He says. "I can be gentle."

It's clear he has no intention of finishing what he'a started at this moment, and I remember we have a party starting soon. "Be ready in forty-five minutes, at least."

I nod, and he kisses me one last time before stepping out of the bathroom.

I left that bathroom ready to greet a few extra guest than who was in my kitchen.

But I walked out to a house full of people I'd never met, or knew and just didn't like.

Every girl from every strip club in town was parading around, groupies were like roaches scowering fresh meat in a garbage can, and drug dealers were crowding the place like possums scavenging through a cow carcass.

Me, Tansy, and Sharise stayed close to Vince, Tommy, Robbin or Nikki, being that random dudes were looking at us like lions seeing gazelles for the first time...Sparkie being one of them when Tansy wasn't looking. I guess he liked what he saw when he caught a glimpse of me naked earlier that night.

Just when I thought Nikki was done with the splurging, he and Robbin informed me of a plan they had for late November, early December.

"Martinique?" I ask the two rockstars. "Why're we going to Martinique?"

"Fucking vacation, Viv. Why else?" Nikki asks, pushing his sunglasses up his nose, taking another sip of Jack.

"Can we afford to take a trip to Martinique?"

Nikki looks at me like I've lost my damn mind.

I learned in that moment to never question our financial situation in front of other men, with that single look.

"Yes. We can. The fuck would you ask that for?" Nikki asks me a little harshly and I shake my head a little.

"Well, we have two brand new sports cars, a brand new mansion—"

"Yeah, baby, that's kinda how bein' a rockstar works." Nikki states and I let out a breath.

"Well, I was ju—"

"Viv, love, c'mere!" Razzle's drunken slur travels from the kitchen to the living room.

"Be right back." I tell Nikki, patting his thigh as I stand up and he swats at my ass before I can walk away.

I turn to look down at him, not amused, and he gives me a toothy grin.

Brushing off his brazen attitude, I step to the kitchen.

Sharise, Tansy, Razzle, Michael, Tommy, and Andy.

"What, Raz?" I ask.

"Have a drink with us!" He pipes.

"I don't drink, Raz." I tell him for the millionth time in the past three weeks that we've hung out.

"I don't give a bloody hell what you drink, just get it, and have a fucking drink with us." He tells me.

I smile a little and open the fridge pulling out a glass bottle of Pepsi.

Tommy's pulling his bottle opener from his pocket but Tansy grabs the bottle from me and opens it with her teeth.

"Tansy!" Sharise and I squeal, my heart racing, and the small "pop" sounds of air leaving the bottle as the cap comes off and Tansy takes it from between her teeth and puts it on the counter, handing me the bottle back.

"What, Nikki taught me how to do it." She explains.

"Nikki can teach you a lot of things, that doesn't mean you do it!" I scold her.

"If you screw your teeth up, you're done with modeling." Sharise adds. "Nobody likes a model with no teeth."

"Gummy chicks do the nastiest shit on your dick, though." Tommy argues passionately and Tansy, Sharise and I slowly look at him, offended and concerned.

I look at Michael who's observing the conversation, trying not to laugh.

"How much longer are you guys in town?"

"Another few weeks." He tells me and I nod.

"Take us with you." Tansy cuts in, side eyeing Tommy over his toothless women comment.

"I can't be the only one here who's gotten a blowjob from a girl with little to no teeth." Tommy states, looking to Sparkie, Razzle, Michael and Andy.

"No, no, no, don't drag them into your sick freak fest." I tell him, motioning to the members of Hanoi Rocks that are present.

"My freak fest? Nikki's told me whats on that tape you mentioned, and you're just as bad as us."

"Because I married one of you. It's called adapting. I'm an adapter."

"There's apparently parts of you that can adapt to a lot." He scoffs and I cut my eyes at him.

"Because she doesn't have to be toothless in order to do nasty shit on Nikki's dick." Tansy tipsily takes up for me and I squeeze my eyes together.

"You know, the more I get to know you the more I really like you, love." I hear Razzle say to me.

"Change of subject." I reply, laughing nervously, looking at Michael and Andy.

"Yeah, you guys, you're gonna scar the foreigners." Mike mimics a high pitched American accent to sound like me the best that he can and it catches all of us off guard, and causes us to combust into laughter.

#nikki sixx #tommy lee #vince neil #mötley crüe #douglas booth #colson baker #daniel webber #the dirt #the dirt movie

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angiewang19 · 4 years

Text

discussing anti-Blackness in a Chinese-American household

Over dinner, my parents and I had a heated argument about Black Lives Matter and anti-blackness. Racism is always going to be a tough conversation in America (thanks Lauren for the reminder -- it’s somewhat comforting to know that we aren’t all screaming at each other for no good reason, and this is supposed to be ridiculously uncomfortable). At the CMC event, Johnson articulated some observations I’ve witnessed over the years, and I felt triggered and empowered to have this conversation with my parents.

In “20+ Allyship Actions for Asians to Show Up for the Black Community Right Now”, Michelle Kim writes: “In our quest to survive, some of us may have been striving to become White-adjacent— as successful as White people, as fitting in and assimilated as White people, as deserving as White people of dignity and respect — and along the journey, consciously or subconsciously, have adopted the language and beliefs of White Supremacy and anti-Blackness.”

Additionally, many Chinese (and more broadly Asian) immigrants feel a strong sense of, “I helped myself climb the ladder to the American dream, so it’s up to Black people to help themselves.” Framed in a different way, an open letter shared via Subtle Asian traits illuminates a prevalent perspective from the Asian-American community during this time: “Asians have been discriminated against, and we’re fine. Why can’t Black people do the same?”

I believe the root of this issue is that many Chinese-Americans have trouble recognizing their own privileges. Our accomplishments and our community’s circumstances as a whole are not just the products of our hard work but also the products of our privilege.

At this point, many first-generation immigrants like my parents would object that they had close to no privilege when they came to the United States. My parents arrived in the Bay Area as post-docs at Stanford, living in a tiny apartment and making ends meet with their meager stipends. My mom’s favorite place to shop was at garage sales. There, she shopped for my clothes, toys, and even the measuring cups and spoons that we still use in our kitchen today. Yes, my parents had very little in terms of traditional capital, but they had other forms of capital.

First, it’s important to note that they arrived in the US as post-docs. This fact reveals my parents’ privileges like a Russian nesting doll. Their PhDs are glaring forms of privilege, but what enabled them to earn their degrees? Starting from a young age, my parents excelled in school not only because they worked their asses off but because my grandparents created an environment conducive to learning and studying. That safe and stable environment represents privilege. Although both my maternal and paternal grandparents were lower-middle class, some kind of force pushed them to realize that education is an impetus for upward mobility. That narrative, imposed on their children, represents privilege. My parents also talk about the mentors they’ve worked with throughout their educational journey, people whom they still communicate with. They had individuals who believed in them, advised them, and supported them as they were the first in their families to embark on this educational pursuit. That’s cultural capital. That’s privilege.

In our argument, I reminded my dad that when he was doing research in Japan, he was one of his advisor’s favorite students. His advisor was extremely demanding, and my dad worked his ass off for this man. He said something along the lines of, I worked so hard, and the only thing I received from him was a recommendation letter for my US visa paperwork. The truth is, you aren’t entitled to that letter, and the only thing you received from him was a crucial thing. If he hadn’t written a letter for you, there’s a chance that your life today would be unrecognizable. I can’t believe this takes reminding, but to cross paths with people who are willing to dedicate time and energy to help you with your agenda --big or small checklist items-- is a privilege.

After entering the workforce, my parents encountered their ups and downs. When I was five years old, my dad commuted from Mountain View to Berkeley, waking up at 5 am to catch the train. My mom lost her job in the 2008 financial crisis. But when they pivoted towards new opportunities, nobody was rooting against them. In fact, I’d argue that many of these Silicon Valley tech companies actually prefer Asian-Americans like them. In their eyes, Asians (specifically Chinese immigrants) are diligent workers, decent people, and have wickedly good technical backgrounds. These hiring managers know that many Asians strive to be twice as good to get the opportunities they dream of, and that kind of drive serves their corporation’s interests as well. This model minority stereotype has worked and will continue to work in my and my parents’ favor. That, my friends, is yet another privilege.

My parents firmly believe that if lower and middle class folks value education more, they too can scoop up the opportunities my parents have had, like it’s a free-for-all Easter egg hunt. The issue is, a Black girl from the South Side of Chicago might not have parents and role models who preach the importance of education. She might do her schoolwork in a space with crying babies, fighting parents, and gunshots in the background. Perhaps, from doing some googling online, she might realize that college would be the opportunity of a lifetime, but she doesn’t have a counselor who believes in her and helps her fill out the complicated mess of college applications. Her parents might say college isn’t an option; instead, she should work and prioritize the family’s financial needs. Her resume might be put aside because of her distinctly Black name. And if she successfully enters the workforce, there’s a good chance she might not be perceived as an equal. This is a product of centuries-long oppression. I don’t believe that my parents (mostly my mom) have a nuanced understanding of this aspect of America.

Throughout their lives, my parents had opportunities to work hard and show people what they’re worth -- as intellectuals, team players, and humans. If the Black girl was able to find a job, she had a single opportunity to work hard and show people what she’s worth, but she would still be constrained -- by means of America’s racial contract. My immigrant parents often discuss the wealth they missed out on because of their relatively later arrival in America (so they missed good deals on buying houses) or not having the cultural background to play workplace politics better (to take on leadership positions) or the fact that I’m not a legacy student (I don’t need to explain why this is helpful). But ultimately, the opportunity to work hard is a privilege. The opportunity to work hard is a source of hope -- that individuals are able to do something to better their lives. A significant portion of the Asian-American community, and more specifically, the Chinese-American community, has this privilege.

Having privilege is a nebulous mix of lottery luck and willpower. Nobody likes to acknowledge what they have but didn’t directly earn. But we need to face the fact we don’t live in a fair, equitable, and just society. My parents got defensive when I pointed out their privilege and mine. Yes, it’s not White privilege. But we don’t fear for our life when we go on a run or get pulled over by the cops. We aren’t blatantly turned away when we take out a loan or mortgage. We deal with the occasional microaggression which pales in comparison to what Black Americans deal with on a daily basis. We aren’t the benefactors of White privilege, and we can’t understand what it feels like to be Black and blatantly and constantly oppressed, either. It is undoubtedly a strange spot to be in.

This privilege and our struggle to come to terms with it prevents us from being stronger allies of the Black community. It is a sense of, “we still don’t have enough.” How much privilege is enough until everyone in the Asian-American community is satisfied, happy, and ready to fight alongside the Black community? We all know the answer to that question: we are so fixated on what we don’t have, which obscures what we do have.

What we do have should be a strong enough impetus to fight for a community that has given us many of the privileges we have today. Our Asian-American culture is rooted in hard work, no excuses, and no bullshit -- and I hope that we can mobilize together and use these aspects for good beyond our own self-interests.

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dmmowers · 7 years

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The Spirit of truth

People are confused about the Holy Spirit. We talk and sing and preach about the Father and the Son, but we hear much less about the Holy Spirit than the other two persons of the Trinity. The Pentecostals, who formed me as a Christian and taught me to read Scripture seriously, talk more about the Holy Spirit than maybe any other Christian group, and they helped me become familiar with the Holy Spirit. When I was at Bible college, sometimes we would linger in prayer after a worship service, asking the Spirit to make the presence of Jesus real in our lives. That was a wonderful thing, but that didn't mean that there wasn't confusion about the Holy Spirit even there. My first year, I lived across the hall from a man who had been in the Army prior to college. He spent most of his leisure time in the weight room, and he looked like it. He also had a great sense of humor and a winning smile. One night, we were in the cafeteria at dinner sitting across from each other when a young woman walked up to our table and said to him, "We've never met, but the Holy Spirit told me that you and I are going to get married." He smiled back and said, "That's funny. The Holy Spirit hasn't told me that."

We Episcopalians might scoff that some of our evangelical friends would talk about the Holy Spirit in those terms, but we are not immune from our own confusion about the Holy Spirit. A few years ago, I was reading a newsletter from another diocese that had a high school student's account of going to a youth summer camp. "When I got to camp and met the counselors and the other campers," the student said, "I just felt the Holy Spirit right away." On another occasion, after a bitter debate where personal insults and attacks got thrown back and forth between sides, a General Convention narrowly passed legislation related to the way the Episcopal Church thinks about sexuality. After the very, very close vote, someone who supported the winning side said to a church news outlet, "The Holy Spirit has led us to embrace this new understanding."

So: Confusion. Does the Holy Spirit give us insight into the future in deeply personal terms? Does the Holy Spirit give us an emotional experience when we meet other people or participate in a profound moment of worship? Does the Holy Spirit work through a majority vote, such that the people that "win" are the people who have the Holy Spirit and the people that "lose" are the sad sops who don't have the Spirit and don't even know it?

So this morning, I'd like to try to clear up some of this confusion about the Holy Spirit. This morning's gospel reading comes right after the reading from last week, where Jesus promised the disciples that he would be in relationship to them for all of eternity - that he would be their Way through death to the presence of God on the other side. In our passage today, Jesus moves on to what their lives will be like. Jesus is about to die; the disciples don't know that he is going to be raised from the dead. So Jesus isn't preparing them for his death with these last sermons in John 12-17 but rather for his ascension - you might have noticed that even though Jesus has been raised from the dead and most of us in this room claim to follow him, none of us have actually, physically seen Jesus. At least, I don't think so. Maybe someone in the choir. If Jesus has been raised from the dead, why haven't we seen him? Because he has ascended into heaven. He has gone to the right hand of the Father to rule over the world, to have dominion over every country over every facet of our world.

Jesus' disciples, like Jesus himself, are all Jews, so this business about Jesus going away is particularly troubling. In Jesus' time, God's presence was with his people in one particular place: the Temple, in Jerusalem. People could go into the temple to worship before the presence of God, but that worship was mediated through priests and the Temple authorities that had become corrupt. The presence of God was there, but the Spirit of God was only poured out on particular people who had a special vocation - the prophets, for instance. God was all-seeing and all-knowing, but the only way to approach God was through worship of the Temple.

So Jesus is preparing his disciples for what it will look like to not have him around anymore, and he says that he will not leave them as orphans. In other words, Jesus isn't going to go away and leave them to the status quo. He had come into the world as God, and now that he was heading back to the Father, he couldn't simply send them back to the way things were before. He tells his disciples that he "will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you forever." At first blush, this doesn't seem to solve anything. Who is this Advocate, and why does this Advocate's presence mean that we are not left as orphans? Isn't Jesus still just as absent as he otherwise would have been? Aren't the disciples just back to the same situation, where they worship God at the Temple through the mediation of corrupt authorities and where the presence of God is relatively unapproachable and removed?

II.

Last week, I spoke with a pastor friend who is a few years into planting a new church in the far northern suburbs of the Twin Cities, about 35 minutes from downtown Minneapolis. His church has a hundred or so people, they couldn't help but notice two years ago when a giant evangelical megachurch decided they were going to move in down the street and hold services in the town's high school. The megachurch's largest building, the mothership, if you will, was in a town about 25 miles away, and over the last few years they had built several satellite campuses like this one. Their pastor would preach at the mothership every week and appear on a video screen at each of the satellite campuses. The very first week the megachurch met at the high school in my friend's town, they had 500 people at the service. After being there for two years, the megachurch decided that they needed their own building in that town, so pulled out their checkbook and spent $18 million to buy and renovate an abandoned K-mart in the town. Once it was ready, they held their first service in the K-mart, and grew from 500 people meeting in the high school to over 6000 people in that old K-mart.

I asked my friend what he thought about the new megachurch. "The megachurch is perfect for our community," he said. I did a double-take. "What do you mean, perfect? Aren't you worried that they will draw families from your church? Or that people who might have otherwise joined your church might join their congregation instead? Couldn't that make it more difficult for your church to survive?" He said, "People move out here to these suburbs because they don't want to know anyone. They want bigger houses and more toys; they don't want to know anyone. This church is the church for people who don't want anyone to know who they are. You come in, you sing songs in the dark, you consume the worship experience like you would any other product, and you get in your car and leave. You never have to be in relationship with anyone, you never have to disagree with anyone, no one even has to know that you're there. You're totally anonymous, just like the suburbs."

You wouldn't think that a church of this size and denomination would have much in common with your typical Episcopal church, but it does. There are lots of Episcopalians who like to think of themselves as being spiritual without being religious. They are Christians, sure, but it's not really anyone else's business what their faith is like, because that's a private matter between them and God. That view presumes that what's important about Christian faith is occasionally sneaking in the back door for worship, but not often enough that anyone actually knows who we are, much less what's hard in our lives. This is no different than the people who attend church in that old K-mart north of Minneapolis; it says that our friendships aren't a part of being a Christian. No one can support us in our griefs or in our losses because no one knows who we are. From the perspective of the New Testament, this is completely wrong.

III.

In our reading this morning, Jesus says, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you forever." But that's not actually what the Greek says here. What I just read to you is what it sounds like in formal, Yankee English. We need some help from our friends down South to actually say this the way the Greek says it. "If y'all love me, y'all will keep my commandments. He will give y'all another Advocate to be with y'all forever.

Jesus is addressing his disciples in the plural, not in the singular. He's saying the Advocate, the Spirit of Truth, will come to be with the disciples as a collective. The Holy Spirit will come to the disciples as a group, not as a collection of individuals. The disciples will not be orphaned when Jesus goes away because the Holy Spirit is coming to them to bring them the presence of Jesus. No longer will the disciples have to go to the temple to worship God; that's fairly obvious. But what is less obvious is that they will not even need the physical presence of Jesus with them in order to worship him, because the Holy Spirit comes to bring Jesus to them. "In a little while," Jesus says, "the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you will also live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you; those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them."

Even though Jesus has gone away to the Father and the world no longer sees him, his disciples will see him. Because he lives, his disciples will also live. On that first Pentecost, when the disciples receive the Holy Spirit as Jesus had promised, they will know that Jesus is in the Father, and that they are in Jesus, and that Jesus is in them. Those who love Jesus will be loved by the Father, and Jesus will love them and show himself to them. The Holy Spirit comes to bring Jesus' presence to the disciples as a community so that they will know Jesus' love in their relationships, and so that they will be unified with each other in that love.

IV.

The Holy Spirit is sent to the first disciples in community. The Holy Spirit is still sent to disciples in community. The Holy Spirit comes to us today to make Jesus present and to give our community the spiritual gifts we need to take up Jesus' mission in our world. We see the presence of Jesus through the Holy Spirit in, among other places, the relationships of trust that we build with one another. As we know others and are known by them, as we share our pain and our baggage with others, the Holy Spirit makes Jesus present to us through each other. We can't just scurry in the back door at two minutes to mass and scurry out just before coffee hour four times a year and expect that we will know the deep presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives. Sure, the Spirit can make Jesus present in many ways, even to people who are radically unfaithful to Jesus -- think of Paul's conversion on the road to Damascus in Acts 9 -- but the way that we are promised that the Spirit will be present is in the fellowship between the disciples. The Holy Spirit comes to us when we are together as Jesus' disciples. When we worship together, when we live our lives in ways that are deeply vulnerable to other Christians, when we serve the poor together the Holy Spirit makes Jesus present to us.

This doesn't mean that all churches do this well. Vulnerability is hard. I am here at Trinity Church in part this morning because I was once part of a church that failed to foster this kind of friendship in some pretty fundamental ways. We have former Catholics and Lutherans, former Nazarenes and evangelicals, even some other Episcopalians who are here because at some point they were hurt by a local church. Just like I did, each of us made decisions to leave where we were and to eventually make our way to Trinity. I'm not at all suggesting that we were wrong to do that. Sometimes churches are toxic. Sometimes churches have tragically little interest in being the kinds of communities that are deeply shaped by Jesus.

But Jesus' vision for the church, and for Trinity Church, is that we would share deeply of our lives with each other. In this sharing, the Holy Spirit takes those of us who have nothing in common other than trust in the cross of Christ and makes us a family. Jesus' vision for church is that every difference that could drive us apart is made secondary to the witness of the Holy Spirit in our lives together: a vision where the people who win a vote at a convention genuinely comfort and care for those who lose. A vision where the people who live in a mansion share their bitterest disappointments with the people who live in a trailer park and are comforted by them. A vision of the church where people who think that Christian marriage is between men and women befriend a gay couple not to try to change them but rather to go on vacations with them. This is a vision of the church where love is a verb: where the people of God take action to care for each other, to care not just for the people who are like us but indeed for the people who are not like us. As the people of God take care of one another, the love of the church spills out just like the love of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit spilled out into the creation of the world. The love of the church spills outside of the church to our neighbors, to those outside our church, to the down-and-out, to the abused, to the people who can never catch a break.

May this church be a community that is marked by the presence of Jesus brought to us by the Holy Spirit. May this church be a community where people are safe to know and to be known, and to deeply share their hopes and successes, their failures and their hurts with each other. Thanks be to God that Jesus Christ, ascended into heaven, has asked the Father to send us an Advocate to bring us the presence of Jesus forever; in spite of all our failings and unfaithfulness, in spite of our wandering and our carelessness, Jesus has promised us the Holy Spirit, and the love of that Holy Spirit will never be stopped.

Amen.

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foodselfiesandstuffblog · 7 years

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Vogue: What It’s Like to Be Black and British in Trump’s America

"Vogue Magazine's" Fashion News Editor, Chioma Nnadi takes on the cross-intersectionality of being Black and British under a Trump Presidency.

It was the weekend after the presidential election, and what had to so many felt unthinkable had actually happened—bolstered by waves of misogynist and isolationist rhetoric, Donald Trump had actually won. After the initial rush of protest rallies, the atmosphere throughout New York City was somber. A friend had invited a small group of similarly downtrodden souls for dinner at his partner’s apartment on the Upper East Side, aiming to lift our spirits. “Creative solidarity is essential for the most urgent matter,” read the email. “Looking forward to seeing. Supper at 6:00 p.m.” The idea of commiserating over wine and home-cooked food seemed particularly soothing. It was an unseasonably warm Sunday evening, and so I made a pit stop at the Met Breuer on my way from Brooklyn before I continued walking uptown, buoyed by the mood-brightening effects of Kerry James Marshall’s paintings. Against the stark white walls of the museum, his colorful, noble scenes of black American life had an optimism that was thoroughly uplifting and felt universal, one that seemed to suggest to me that the future might not be so bleak after all.

That positive thinking came to an abrupt end some 20 blocks north, when I arrived at my friend’s building and was pointed in an unfamiliar direction, away from the wood-paneled elevator banks, toward a small door at the opposite end of the lobby. Moments later, I found myself in the bowels of the building, not my friend’s warm, comforting apartment. It took a few minutes for me to realize that instead of directing me to the dinner party on the ninth floor, the doorman had sent me to the service entrance. I looked down at my clothes under the flickering florescent lights—plaid Junya Watanabe jacket, fire-engine red leather boots, and turquoise statement earrings—kooky art dealer, maybe—but delivery person? And then, of course, it dawned on me: It was because of the color of my skin.

I am lucky. It had been a long time since I’d experienced discrimination on such a rudimentary level in New York, though, of course, this minor incident paled in comparison to the grim hate crimes and police shootings that have been making headlines lately. Ultimately, it was further confirmation of what I already knew: that the bubble on our so-called post-racial society had burst long ago. Trump wasn’t even the needle that popped it—he was the grim residue.

Granted, as a black British woman, I am in some ways already at a distance from the complicated racial politics of this country. Though I have a deep connection with and admiration for the African-American experience, I can’t claim to know all of its complexities firsthand. I recently heard comedian Gina Yashere, a black woman who was born and raised in the U.K., jokingly tell the BBC in an interview that her English accent had gotten her out of a lot of trouble in America; that resonated with me. I know that I can change the course of a first impression with my voice, disorientating those with preconceived notions of blackness. My Britishness can offer an escape route from the insidious little boxes that have formed over centuries to stifle African-Americans. I am “other” in a way that is nebulous to some, and so considered to be more exotic than threatening. Throw the fact that I’m also half white into the equation, and my identity becomes even more difficult to contain.

The complexities of being biracial were something I navigated relatively easily as a child. The central London community in which I grew up was like something out of a Zadie Smith novel; the neighbors in our government housing block were all first- or second-generation immigrants like us—Irish, Portuguese, Ghanaian, Jamaican, Indian; most of the kids at my public elementary school were Bengali, and so we celebrated Muslim holidays like Eid along with Christmas and Easter in class. My parents encouraged me and my brothers to see our mixed heritage as a blessing, and made sure we socialized with other black and brown kids; my two best friends in the neighborhood were both mixed—one of Dutch and Nigerian origins, the other with Greek Cypriot and Barbadian roots.

It was only when we stepped outside of that working-class, multicultural safe zone that things got weird, like the time my older brother was chased by skinheads on his way back from a soccer game in the East End. London in the late ’80s wasn’t always a friendly place, but then neither was Continental Europe. I remember traveling to see my Swiss grandparents with my mother and younger brother, and the stares we got there were like nothing I’d ever known. Few could believe that our mother was really our mother, assuming that we’d been rescued from an orphanage in some faraway land by this dark-haired white lady. And when we said we were from London, the next question was always the inevitable: “But where are you really from?” We were welcomed with open arms in Nigeria, my father’s homeland, though still as something of a space oddity, especially in rural parts of the country. I remember one woman at the local village market running up to me with a huge smile on her face, excited to tell me that I was the first white person she’d ever seen: in her mind, all Westerners were essentially one and the same, regardless of color.

It’s perhaps why I’ve sought out safe zones of a similar kind to those of my childhood as an adult. Moving to Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn—what had been pitched to me as “the Brixton of New York” 14 years ago—was somewhat of a survivalist move on my part. Sure, it helped that the rooms for rent were then within my modest price range as a young writer working at a downtown magazine, but beyond the practicalities, this was a place that felt like home. It was comforting to hear both church bells and the prayer song of the local mosque on my morning coffee run; my favorite Senegalese hair-braiding spot downtown was only a short bus ride away; and whether I was in the mood for jollof rice or jerk chicken, I could satisfy my craving within a matter of blocks.

While gentrification has displaced some of my favorite spots, the most imminent threat to diverse, vibrant neighborhoods like mine are the racism and bigotry that has drifted this way in the past year. When I once openly envied the Americans who’d been lucky enough to have Barack Obama for a president, the outcome of the last election had me instinctively reaching for my European passport and plotting an escape. That said, returning to the U.K., and Brexit, a referendum that has exposed all kinds of a xenophobic fault lines in British society, wasn’t exactly a welcoming thought; outside of London, the very idea of England as my motherland never had much meaning to me anyway.

Those initial feelings of panic and despair have dissipated for the most part in the three months since, and deepened into a new resolve. Now more than ever, I’m determined to stake my claim here, to deepen the roots I’ve already planted. Some might call me naive for clinging to the old New York clichés—the place where you can be whoever you want to be, where everything is possible, and all weirdos great and small are encouraged to let their freak flag fly—but shouldn’t we all have our own set of keys to this city?

It’s a thought that crossed my mind when I found myself at a friend’s holiday party uptown a few weeks ago, at the same Upper East Side address I’d visited back in November. This time around the doorman on duty rushed over to welcome me with cheery salutations as I hovered nervously in the lobby, barely giving me a chance to name-check the host before he ushered me toward the elevators I’d been denied before. It was somehow strangely empowering to know that I’d been given access to both the basement and the upper floors of the building, two totally different strata. Being temporarily locked out of one was jarring, but it hadn’t taken away from the sense of belonging I felt in New York as a whole. Nor should it deter the young dream-chasers of every color and creed who come here from all corners of the world. This city—this country—would be incomplete without them.

#Vogue Magazine #Chioma Nnadi #Fashion News Editor #Trump Presidency

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