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vampiresuns · 3 years

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Nothing To Prove

♠ NOTHING TO PROVE ♠

1.4k words. The Lemione make a comeback after The Rising Tide. Set 5 years before the start of the game, Commodore Emmanuel Lemione, eldest brother of Anatole’s ex Decimo, has an encounter with the Pirate Queen and her Quartermaster.

Saoirse and Meredith belong to @apprenticealec. This fic was brought to you by the fact I cannot stop thinking about Saoirse.

Thank you, Dani, as always, for having created such a wonderful universe.

Being a Commodore, Emmanuel Lemione was the highest ranking officer in his ship. A ship he knew well enough had been sent on a suicide mission. The power-hungry Count apparently knew of a creature, Emmanuel did not know any better word for it, which travelled along with the Pirate Queen who had great power, power vaster than any of them could imagine.

Emmanuel did not think the idea had come from the Count. Not only did he not think him capable enough to know about this creature. Emmanuel only knew through stories of stories once lost, told to him by his Aunts when he was a child, having kept his eyes open enough to allow himself to wonder if they were real. He also couldn’t recognise the Count’s behaviour in the order, mysteriously cast upon his ship.

He was not surprised when his crew met terrible fates, nor was he surprised to see the weariness in their faces, the anger and discomfort when his brother Adeodatus, a Lieutenant Commander, now acting as Commander as Emmanuel’s had died in one of the crew’s misfortunes, edged them on. He was powered by their father’s last letter, where he told them that they achieved this conquest would be fundamental for the future of Vesuvia, and the elimination of piracy of the waters.

Adeodatus believed it, or rather, he had no problem enacting it, because he had no problem amassing power he did not understand to advance in life. Emmanuel, however, disagreed and the more he spent at sea, the more he did so. He didn’t like pirates, except for their romantic sense of adventure, but piracy was often solved by the elimination of poverty and other kinds of social measures which prevented people from turning to crime in order to secure their living, or their freedom.

He was absorbed in yet another discussion with Adeodatus, who thought he could ignore his orders simply because he was his brother, when the Pirate Queen and her Quartermaster found them.

“You can’t turn away and set course to Vesuvia, Emmie—”

“Unlike you, I would like to get back to my fiancé alive. If the legends are true—”

“Legends? What are legends and fairy tales to men—” Adeodatus threw himself into a tirade in the navigation room, Emmanuel’s own Quartermaster and one other officer there standing uncomfortably in the middle of the argument. His brother heed him warning by calling him by his title once, twice, but he did not shut up, until Emmanuel raised his voice.

“Lieutenant Commander. Shut up.”

“Oh, that’s mature Emmanuel, you know I’m—”

“It’s Commodore Lemione to you, and if I hear one more seditious idea from you, I will lock you up in your room for the rest of the way back.”

A crash was heard and the ship moved in a direction it was not being steered. The crew yelled and someone came to find Emmanuel, disconcert reading on their faces.

“Commodore, we here hit by something like a harpoon—”

Colour drenched out of Emmanuel’s face as he ran on deck, followed by his Quartermaster, who took out his spyglass along the way.

“Oh, heavens.”

“Sir,” said Rhys, the Quartermaster, “I think the Pirate Queen found us.”

Emmanuel felt his thoughts raise in his head, sighing with resignation at last. “We will talk to her. Show proof we are a Vesuvian ship, if my estimations are correct, she should let us go.”

“I hope the heavens hear you, Sir.”

“She’s friends with the Count.”

“What? Sir, I don’t think it’s the moment to joke.”

“I’m not joking, Rhys. She is friends with the Count.”

“But how?”

“He was a condottiero. How do you think I doubt the order to capture her ship came from the Count himself?”

His Quartermaster looked at him, confusion in his face before he reached the same conclusion Emmanuel had had on his own, but was still too afraid to voice. “If not the Count, then who? Do you—”

“Don’t say anything, I am not strong enough to say it yet...keep an eye on my brother.”

With a nod, the Quartermaster set himself to his purpose while Emmanuel instructed the crew. He told them he was aware they were tired, and unless they were provoked, he would not make them fight any more fights, tonight, they would set way to Vesuvia for good with their lives intact. Commanding them to wait, he set an advice about seditious words, anyone who did not value the lives of their crew more than personal glory, was no true Vesuvian.

“You may not believe it, but trust me by this, on my word and care for you, my friends and family away from our home: we are about to face something bigger than all of us, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

They waited, being tolled and Emmanuel prayed.

He remembered the stories: of a being so old and so vast it was confined to where no one could find them, because all demons and creatures which roam this earth were afraid of them. He remembered the legends of its freedom, and wild women who feared the sea under their protection. He remembered the stories and feared; anyone who had been at sea enough knew from the sea itself there were things they would never understand, things that would snap the spirit of those not strong enough to face them, and leave a lasting impression in those whose temperance allowed them to make decent sailors out of them. Storms bigger than what mother nature could herself create, beings with sharp teeth and forgotten humanity, and things they were all too unable to comprehend.

Upon meeting the Pirate Queen, Emmanuel realised one could look to her Quartermaster with no problem, directly in the eye, but there was something terror inducing about a hair as golden as the sunlight in High Noon when they turned their heads.

He could feel his brother recoil at the shade of blond in their hair, for reasons entirely different — or perhaps the same. He didn’t know, he didn’t care.

“We are a Vesuvian ship, which has been through many hardships as we were sent on a false trail by our superiors. Pirate Queen Meredith we mean you no harm.”

“Where are your colours?”

“Flaming there, over the quarterdeck. We cannot repair the pulley without sacrificing sail rope. If… if you need a token for our passing, I cannot offer you anything of my crew, but I can offer you this.”

Had he been a different man, his hand would’ve shaken when he took out a golden locket from underneath his shirt, taking it off. Finely made and glistening, Emmanuel opened it, taking some hair out of it — he took out a handkerchief to protect the hair, before trying to hand the locket to Meredith.

“It’s my fiancé’s,” he explained, not knowing why. “They’ll understand.”

His words fell flat as the ship was still searched. He ordered his crew to be helpful, and the ordeal would soon be over. As he looked over them, he felt someone or rather something stand besides him.

“Did anyone find anything?” Meredith asked

“Vesuvian ships never come this way,” Saoirse said, “that’s what I found.”

He cleared his throat. “We were sent on a mistaken path.”

“And none of you realised?” Meredith’s voice cut through, and the Quartermaster lost all interest in Emmanuel.

“No,” he lied.

“Your locket will do. There truly isn’t shit in this ship. Tell your Count to get better sailors.”

Emmanuel nodded, not intending to do any of the like, but glad they finally left so his ship could make its way back to Vesuvia, hopefully unharmed.

As they resumed their course, Emmanuel watched the Pirate ship sail way.

“My father will not be happy about this. You keep disappointing him.”

Emmanuel knew exactly what he was talking about — his fiancé, whom he had decided to marry despite his parents wishes, as other matches would be better, and he was left alone only when they realised he would marry them anyway, with or without their consent. Such a scandal, another son forswearing the family was too much for his parents, especially if it was someone with enough social cards as Emmanuel.

He ignored his brother, silently looking at the way in which the Pirate ship had gone until Adeodatus gave up and left. Only then he spoke. “I have nothing to prove to my father.”

#the arcana #the arcana oc #my writing #saoirse #meredith #dani's ocs #the lemione family #emmanuel lemione #this is one of the tolerable lemione but adeodatus is the one who gave nana his cut on the cheek #so we hate him

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jay-zoetic · 5 years

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Life doesn’t happen as fluidly as a memory. Rather it bounces back and forth in relativity. A moment in time linked to another. This is the start of me telling my story, as best I know how. As honestly and as transparently as I can muster so that maybe one day someone can read the words that follow and know, like I did from the many readings of others who were brave enough to share, that they too are not alone. There is always hope.

The Beginning of Knowing:

(A reflection of my slow awakening to my true-self)

Picture this for a moment, 13-year-old me, sitting in a recliner at my Aunt’s house watching “Boys Don’t Cry” for the first time.

The graphic content on the screen making my cheeks flush bright red, so much so I thought the heat would permeate across the room in my aunt’s direction. So naturally, I reached for a blanket as my only barrier to shield her from viewing my reaction to the screen.

-Two years prior my big brother, David whom I idolized was killed in a tragic accident that kick-started the beginning of my world turning away from any sense of normalcy. That kind of trauma as you could imagine, difficult at any age, was especially difficult for an eleven year old. I carried a great guilt for my brother’s death. I didn’t understand how two weeks prior he could leave a voicemail begging my father to come back home and telling him that he’d be a better son, a better big brother to me, and then never having the chance to see him again.

There are moments with David that will never leave me.

My brother was not the kind of kid you could brag about. He had his demons and we were always at odds. I felt invisible at his side, but we couldn’t get a-long well enough for him to stay at our home without my father fearing for my safety in his presence. He moved in with our father and my step-mother around the time I was seven. We had a trial run on weekends and holidays the year prior, but both being only children for most of our lives we didn’t much like to share. Our home was a small double-wide trailer that sat on 8 acres of land. Too small to house the two of everything that David and I were gifted to keep the peace. The two trampolines, basketball hoops, a dog pen for each of our dogs, mine, Lady and his, named Yellow.

I didn’t care much for the newly acquired chores of washing the dishes and folding the laundry while my brother took up helping our dad with the yard work, my old job prior to his arrival. I felt like he had taken my father from me and he felt as if I always had my father in his absence, naturally we fought for his love an interaction on equal fronts because my dad spent most of his days working three jobs to feed and provide for two children.

One day, a short five years after my brother had lived with us, he ripped a sling blade from the palm of my hand. He couldn’t have known how sharp the blade was even in its rusted state, but as the blood trickled down my wrist, I watched my brother panic. It was too late, my father then reacted in a state of rage that I am not proud to admit ended the course of our sibling interaction under the same roof and that night he was asked to pack his belongings.

It was incredibly quiet the year that my only brother, my terrorizor, my hardest lesson and first in loss, left. I felt half of a void in his absence, not the blood half, but the souls renching grasp of absence half and when I listened to that voicemail a part of me truly believed he had indeed changed. We could try again. We could be a whole family, again.

We went to visit him that weekend at the local skating rink where he, my brothe, practiced for the skate team. I’ll never forget those tight spandex shorts clinging to his thighs and my father calling him, ‘wolf boy” due to the hair state of his exposed legs protrouding from their grip. We spent hours playing Mortal Kombat in the arcade. Side by side exchanging quarters and the last few precious moments of peace and bonding time I’d ever have with him. Before leaving my father told my brother to, “hug your little sister, “she” loves you David and looks up to you.” We both grimaced and with all the hesitation that my brother could muster he finally wrapped me up into those dangling arms one last time. I can still feel the mutters the “ew” and “gross” leaving my lips. It didn’t help much with convincing our parents we’d be fine, but it was a promising start.

In the parking lot I noticed my brother had grown at least three inches since I’d seen him last. I reached down for a moment to feel the scar on my palm and felt that it was still there, then back up at him to realize that their were no skates on his feet to propel him to the horizon, that was just all puberty taking its course. Time passing and quickly. In that same moment while he exchanged playful punches with my father, I saw him stand toe-to-toe with the man that he feared, just months prior. A glimpse of the man he was destined to become and peering from the backseat window of our family car I saw a slight mist in both of their eyes as they hugged goodbye for the last time. I can still remember my brother’s goofy grin and waver as we pulled out of the parking lot without him and then the moment he turned away, I imagine a little sad that he could not yet come home. That was the last time I ever saw my brother. It was the last time my father ever held his first-born son with his spirit and body intact.

At David’s wake, I was able to kiss his forehead for the first and last time. I didn’t understand why he was wearing make-up and foundation. His hair looked different too, but I didn’t grimace over this strange version of him. I just wanted him to open his eyes. I wanted him to tell me that this was just another one of his pranks. I wanted the crying around me to stop and for his laughter to fill the room instead. The rest his body was covered with as many letters, photos, and tokens from the people that knew and loved him well as his casket could hold. I remember that being my first experience seeing a dead body and how funny it sounded as I sounded that thought out in my head. I remember overhearing the story of that day differently from what I was told through the mutters and whispers of the hundreds of people in the room paying their respects and visiting with the family. I needed to know that it was real, so I reached into his casket one last time to feel his chest, carefully fixing his tie, and I felt it. The absence of structure on his left side. I imagine a vehicle could have done more damage at 55 mph, but aside from the con caved portion of his rib-cage, he looked perfect, but it was enough to know that the following day I had to say the hardest goodbye of my life. I could never again race my brother in go-carts and win. We could never again fight over the Sega genesis games or hockey card and comic book collections. No more stealing his socks because I hated the ones my parents bought for me. He was never coming home again and all that I had left of him was the one thing that sent him away, still itching from time to time on my right palm. What developed after were many changes in my life and at a rapid pace. It was my first real loss and significant heartbreak. My parents were grieving and going through the process of a long and nasty divorce, I was significantly depressed, hormonal & still very much trying to cope with the loss of my brother. When David died a part of me died with him. I lost the one person I identified with close to me and I didn’t cry about it or want to talk about it until years later. This year, I celebrate the man my brother would have become and I am slowly learning how hard it is to become, “that man” in a world that continues to remind me, I am one chromosome away from him & all of the other men I have looked up to in the process of chipping away at 32 years in the wrong body-

As I sat in that recliner, my soccerdelic t-shirt and green umbro soccer shorts I had begged for in the Belks Junior section (my grandmother’s favorite place to shop for me twice a year. Once prior to school starting and once for Summer) were hugging my rage and hormone filled body. I began feeling flushed as I watched a scene that I now identify as my, "awakening”.

The characters in the film felt so familiar to me; especially Brandon Tina, formerly known as Tina Brandon.

I was terrified with shame. When the surge of lightening coursed through my veins, I gripped the blanket tighter, hid my face, and pretended to sleep.

I had just enough light to continue watching through the tiny weaving of the blanket material. My synapses firing all at once, my heart racing, feeling uncomfortable and confused as to why I never knew these things ever existed. Bewildered by the confrontation now settling weight upon my conscience. Questioning how much sin was within me and how much sin had been inside of me, unwillingly.

Then it happened. The Big Bang effect that would ripple through my life as a warning and another “awakening” as Brandon Teena is pulled from the backseat of a vehicle, bound, and then violated in the most horrific way imaginable. In that moment, I felt dead inside. The life I had experienced in my short 13 years had already been unkind and I was learning the difference between normal and abnormal from a TV screen and it looked and sounded a lot like Brandon Teena’s experience.

I felt my chest tighten, my breathing heavy, and my eyes begin to flood with so much hurt and confusion that I was sure my Aunt could feel it from across the room. I wept quietly for the first time since my brother’s death. I wept for Brandon and I cried for what I though then to be -the bleak existence of my future.

What I learned was something that would haunt me for years to come and I felt something that I couldn’t share with anyone. Horrible things. I felt completely and totally alone in it.

I learned that those things that were called “love” could look a lot like someone you know and that rape doesn’t just happen in dark deserted parking lots, it doesn’t just happen to the pretty girls, or the ones who were out too late, it could even happen without someone identifying as a girl, it could happen out of hate for who you are and for who you are not. I learned that I was not alone in my experience, but I also learned that I was not “normal” and to vocalize any of this would surely be my death sentence. I’d witnessed my parents grieve once and in that moment I chose silence, I chose to burden myself with the responsibility of being the constant to keep them from suffering more and that would mean never speaking of these things to keep me alive and should I ever be brave enough to change; don’t.

Fast Forward 2 years>>>

I was a sophomore in high school, a new one since moving in with my father. A small victory came at the age 15 years old when I decided to go by “Jessy” instead of Jessica-Renee. Like most teens, I used my creativity in high school to set myself apart as an individual. I was incredibly naive, but it was the first time I ever felt like I had a voice or a choice in my life to be or identify with that quieted version of myself.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my name. It was beautiful, but it did not fit me. I would reply to my given name, but out of habit. I loved being named after my dad’s sister, Renee. She was strong, beautiful, and everything I wanted to be growing up. She made life cultured for me when I didn’t have the option to know anything other than the sheltered experiences of my home-life. She understood hustle and hard work and she saw the challenges I was put up against, but never made me feel like I was smaller than them. She pushed me to be better.

The world had already taught me a harsh lesson in what being a woman meant. I had to harness a different kind of strength & beauty to achieve that, but I never could relate to them. I felt as if I were chasing a ghost. A version of someone who didn’t exist within me. I felt like a liar and a cheat, but I became so good at switching the mask.

Everything about being around girls/women felt foreign and I tried to mimic those strong women in my life because I at least knew that meant safety. But in the dark moments when the burden of surviving overwhelmed me I turned to coping in unhealthy ways. I created a cycle of chaos in my relationships with others and damaged my body to punish myself for all of the things that I couldn’t control. I could control that. I honestly felt as though I deserved it. So I didn’t reach for more. I just kind of stagnated until the next thing came along.

In the mean-time I’d fantasize about what my life would be like once I graduated. I’d write lists of what my male name would be, hidden under the title of, “baby boy names” for when I was married to, “said guy” and have the ideal life that my parents would have wanted for me.

I’d think about how I want to sound as strong as my Brother, David or my Father, Brian. Could I convince others to call me something different one day? Would there ever be a moment in my life I could “figure out” what this meant for me?

There are moments that I’m reminded of the sound of my Nana, Grandma, and aunt’s voices calling out for me. The deliberate nature of their voices trailing out from a room separate from me in my life. The women that sheltered me. The women that tried so hard to teach me my place in the world. I felt so much guilt for my part in their inability to contain the fire that burned within me. They often let me figure it out on my own after many attempts at, “getting through” my stubborn ways. Those moments seem so special now in my transition. I’ve tucked them into a safe corner in my mind because truthfully, I will always cherrish the way my name would sound bellowing from their bellies and echoing through their respective homes. Each time felt like love vibrating through the walls and down the hallways I’d learn to walk, first from a crawl, then to a run, and eventually wearing those foreign stilts that my feet felt cramped in. The first blisters on my heels the night of prom when I double-stacked bandaids and smiled at the flashes to match theirs on the other side of the lens. Inside I was clawing at the seams of my costume. The cost of being a woman was a price that weighed too heavy, but there was always a comfort in their firm southern drawl. It deafened the voice that told me I couldn’t be loved, but it also came with a price.

-JESS-KUH RENEE!

-You go GIRL!

These are the moments I’ll keep. I’m learning that I don’t have to wish them away.

You see, like many, I grew up in a tough environment for any child, let alone a growing young lady. The men in my life also made me tough. They knew and saw my curiosity/love of adventure. It was always confusing when the women in my life tried to shelter me from all of that. Collectively they instilled in me a complex & resiliency. It was a tough balance.

There were fights on Sunday about the donning of dresses. There were arguments made about the use/sharing of toys between my brother and I prior to his passing. My barbies were gifted to the back yard then met by the blades of my father’s riding lawn mower.

I buried all of my secrets in the ground of that 8 acres I grew up on in the country on notebook paper. I understood soon enough that writing them down felt more important than having anyone to tell them to.

I prayed beneath cotton candy colored skies at sunsets as my parents yelled so loudly the neighbor’s would take notice and step outside to see me, that quirky kid sitting on a partially deflated basketball holding a pen and paper in my lap.

I prayed that I’d wake up in another world and in the right body, with the perfect family. I prayed for my parents to find peace before my own.

When my breast started to grow, I remember the embarrassment of finding and wearing my first cotton training bra. My grandmother and step-mother took me shopping; at Belks, of course. They were thrilled about this “achievement” of simply waking up to new growth. I was mortified. It was more garment to fight with at the start of my daily routine. Another reason to hate getting dressed in the mornings. I envied my brother who’d walk around the house with a bare chest. His ego a mile wide.

I’d hide in the bathroom trying to figure out why my skin felt like sandpaper against my under garments. My body hair grew from places that he showed so carelessly. I felt ashamed. For wanting it to grow, but also embarrassed at school in gym because other girls my age were already shaving their armpits and apparently that was just another right of passage in womanhood. Once my brother’s girlfriend told me that I should just “shave it off.” I asked my parents if this were possible, but they firmly instructed me to never shave above my knees and to only use an electric razor in shaving below my knees. I found this strange. My brother, who knew this offered to shave my legs for me. I also found this strange, but I agreed and halfway through the process I chickened out. I realized later, with my one shaved calf that this was a set-up. It dawned on me when riding in my father’s truck later that day when he looked down at me trying to cover my left leg and asked why only one leg had hair on it?!

I stammered to explained to him that David shaved it for me. My father’s face looked confused by the admission. He knew David would have never tried to touch me with a razor out of pure discourse for wanting to be near me, let alone without first; trying to harm me with it. Automatically, it sounded like a farce. His face reddened, then the yelling came, where he forbids me to ever shave again.

When I returned to school the in the following weeks, I was relentlessly teased for my hairy legs by my peers. Both boys and girls. I felt trapped in my body by perceptions again and I refused to wear shorts for the fear of being teased again.

I was 15 the year I caved to the societal pressures for what being a woman meant. Remember that night of my first prom? My parents had this glow about them when they saw me. I had by then, grew my hair out, shaved my legs, and started wearing makeup. I felt like a fraud, but the teasing slowed and I began to make friends.

For Amy:

I spent the first few weeks at my new school sophomore year trying to re-establish myself in a new setting. I felt the warmth of possibility. The first attempt came the first day of classes and I was excited to try out my, “new name.”

First period, History class and a name roll-call later I found myself penning down the spelling variations of Jessy, Jessi, Jesse, Jeci over the blue lined notebook paper in front of me. Trying to shield it from others as the teacher, a very round bellied man, grasped his belt and began to ask for our preferred names following the announcing of our “birth-names”. I had a choice here! Finally, I settled on Jessy. So, when I heard the name Jessica, my ears perked and before I could get that final choice uttered, he said their last name…Biggs. The crushing moment that followed was her introduction to her preferred name and spelling…”JESSY”. I didn’t have time to recover before my name was called Immediately following hers. I uttered out a simple, “here”. To my new friends I introduced myself with my preferred name. I didn’t make a fuss about the spelling. I did however have to meet this Jessy.

Jessy walked the halls that day with a similar looking girl, with similar looking hair. The only real difference between the two was a sleeve of tattoos that covered the other girl down to her hands. I knew they were both upper class-men. I’d heard it from Jessy who introduced herself as a junior and later that day I’d catch a brief moment of loving affection shown between her and the girl with similar looking hair while sitting on a bench outside of the lunchroom. I didn’t feel like sitting alone among so many people whose grown-up together so, I casually walked to the end of the hall adjacent to where they sat. I noticed that the tattooed girl, didn’t very much resemble a girl to me at all. This peaked my interest further, but I was too shy to introduce myself and also aware that there was a reason they sat outside of the lunchroom. It was safety.

4th period, Algebra I noticed the girl with similar hair sitting behind me. I needed an excuse to talk to her and learn her name. She felt familiar. She also felt like knowing her would be terrifying for me. I faked reaching for a pencil and then turned empty handed to ask her if I could have one from her. I felt the entire room shift as I spoke. The other students seemed completely surprised that I, long curly headed new-girl would even speak to her. Then, A response, “you can BORROW one.” I laughed nervously and said, “of course, my name is Jessy, in case you need to hunt me down for it later.” She seemed perplexed, but responded, “I’m Amy, thanks.” I couldn’t leave well enough alone and asked to see her tattooed hands and made some lame remark like, “cool tats, that must have hurt.”

I’d get to know Jessy and Amy more over time that year. They introduced me to Nikki and later Nikki would introduce me to Jaimie…who became my very best friend. Another girl, who didn’t look very much like a girl that I crushed on from afar until we met. I would watch and listened to Jaimie and Amy carefully. Constantly in awe of their presence and their bravery to dress in the ways that I allow longed to. But when the moments that occurred from others throwing shame or hatred their way, I cowered. We hung out after school, but in the halls, I started to avoid them to protect my new image from being tarnished along with theirs for standing with them.

Eventually, I couldn’t run from it and started to embrace our friendship more. I would come to learn that Amy identified as transgender. It became my second “awakening” and when she graduated that year, I was sad to know I no longer had her stories or comfort around whenever I needed them. He never knew my internal struggle or how much I relied on her strength to feed mine because four years later when I was ready to reveal that long-held secret, Amy and his girlfriend were killed by a drunken driver while walking home from dinner.

Years 16-17: Independence.

Bouncing between two homes is a terrible experience when your parents carry different parenting styles, but it’s much easier when you finally get your first set of wheels.

I had been working since I was old enough to get my work permit, but the back and forth nature of things made it tough to acquire my learners permit for driving. I finished the course at my old high school, but my parents didn’t have the money to invest in car insurance and a vehicle safe enough to put me in.

My grandmother and grandfather saw a need and stepped in. They did most of the shuttling me around and eventually, they took me in for my driver’s test to achieve that limited learner’s permit prior to getting my license.

May 5th, 2003

I had the permit for almost a week. I was only allowed to drive with a licensed driver over the age of 25. After school one day my grandmother and aunt picked me up in my aunt’s candy-apple red Jeep Cherokee. At the time it was my dream vehicle. I had hopes that she’d retire it to me once I got my full license. I begged them to let me drive the last few miles home from a nearby Burger King because I was hungry and wanted to experience my first time driving unassisted. I was met with hesitation, but eventually found myself behind the wheel grinning from ear to ear while they gripped the, “oh shit! handles” and white knuckles it until we reached my grandmother’s driveway.

I hopped out of the Jeep beaming. I was proud of myself and couldn’t wait to tell my grandfather the good news! He always invested in my successes. Although he was a timid man, he was packed full of charm. His tumbling booms of laughter and joy were all I wanted to hear coming through her door. Usually, he’d greet me with…” where’s my girl?! Come here so I can get a bite of those cheeks!” Then he’s followed with a hug so tight and so warm it could melt the coldest of hearts, mine included.

However, his carefully chosen dialogue and calming nature where not what greeted us as I stormed through the sun-room door and ran towards his chair in the den…empty.

My grandmother��s voice belted from the kitchen, “GUY! GET UP!” My stomach turned and I ran to the kitchen. The fear in her voice was as thick as the swallow of air I fought hard to take into my lungs and release. His feet protruded from the side of the kitchen table. One shoe half on, the other hugging the wall with a tiny trail of his blood dried to the wallpaper. A plate of food still on the table half eaten. That moment felt like an eternity. My brain trying to understand what and how this had happened. A million questions took the backseat as I jumped into action. First trying to wake him. His face pale and upon reaching for his face I felt the cool moisture of his sweat roll down my wrist. Instinctively I reached into his mouth and removed the partial bits left inside blocking his airway. My grandmother in shock started lifting his legs to get him to, “wake up.” Me yelling at her not to move him and then yelling for my aunt to call an ambulance. Moments later he awoke. Only able to try and move his right arm and speak in distorted language. Something in me said, “this is a stroke” When the paramedics arrived, they loaded him into what I had defined as a coffin since my brother’s last trip in that metal box of doom. I didn’t know if I’d ever get those cheek bites again and I felt a terrible guilt for insisting I drove home, making us arrive home later than usual, to find him like that.

He spent the night in Urgent Care and I spent the night trying to avoid the inevitable. Life as I knew it always came in pairs of heartache. The fear of losing g my grandfather was first, the second, losing my sense of peace and safety once I returned home. The second happened that night, for the first time in the one place I called home, but not the “first time”. My safe place. just a few feet away from the kitchen, just a few feet away from my grandfather’s recliner the only man in my life big enough or worthy enough to fill it with love and compassion. This time was different. I put up a fight, tried my damnedest to avoid what I knew could happen, naive enough to think that maybe, some compassion would be bestowed upon me due to the circumstances of what I had been through earlier in my day, but it wasn’t enough to save me from the rest of the attack on body. It wasn’t enough to save me from him.

I missed school the next day, I would have rather gone. In fact, I begged my parents. Anything to keep me away from seeing HIS face, my father’s face when I returned to his house later that afternoon when, HIM, aka “asshole” dropped me off and shook my father’s hand. Anything to keep me pre-occupied from the only other fear in my life at that moment. Losing my grandfather.

I sat on the floor talking to my first girlfriend on the phone. I remember when the line cut in that another call was coming through. I answered to find my grandmother’s voice. A little light shining through that dark time. It was good news. My grandfather had a stroke, but they anticipated another surgery to put in a feeding tube and all should be well. I hung up with relief. In a matter of hours, another call came. This time my step-mother’s voice. This time, my grandfather didn’t make it through the surgery. His body went into shock after the feeding tube was placed. He was gone and I was shattered.

The months that followed were bleak. My mind kind of tapped out on knowing what I needed to feel better. I started caving to peer pressure more and more. I fell away from my principles and morals. I lied to my family, a lot. Mostly because I needed to be away, at any expense. For safety. For healing.

The highlight finally came the day that my grandmother announced she’d help me get my first vehicle. I was just days shy of my 17th birthday. I was so relieved that she’d agreed to help that I nearly ignored “asshole” picking me up from her house later that evening following family supper in my new car. Donning that devilish smile as he existed the car, he questioned,

“Well? What are you waiting for? it’s not going to drive itself?”

I reluctantly climbed into the driver seat. My grandmother motioned for my to, “start her up!” And I obeyed. As we left the driveway the mixture of emotions in my body conflicted with all that I should have been feeling In that moment. The thought of having any sort independence killed with one statement, “there are rules…as you could imagine. You break them and there will be consequences and if you try anything funny, you will lose, every time.” I knew it wasn’t about the car. It wasn’t about my competence in driving or safety on the road. This was a challenge to losing access to me. In that moment my eyes fixated on the tree line, my head went back to that prison, and the only thing keeping my tires between the yellow and white lines was the voice inside of me yelling back, “NOT YET!”

18: The beginning of the end.

Senior year was a tremendous year of growth. I had friends, many of them identified like me. They came from troubled homes, struggled with their sexuality, fitting into a mold placed upon them while living in a southern small town. We did naturally, what most teens do…we rebelled. There were many nights I’d stay out late partying at friends’ houses. I went to swim practices, school, work, then home to do it all over again. I fell away from things that kept me surrounded by my family only because I tried to avoid, “Him”.

I signed my paper for the military and in my waiting to leave that Summer, I practiced my freedom

more than ever. My friends and I started watching a show called, “The L Word.” It felt like the world was turning in my favor and I could start talking about my attraction to women more. So that outing came quicker than expected by a note one of my other step-mom’s found at my dad’s house, only second to him learning from a girl at school that I was, “Bi-sexual.” To this day I’m not quite sure what provoked her to approach my father with that news, but it happened and I was angry for several reasons. The first being that I did NOT identify as Bi-sexual. The second and major reason, I was joining the military and at that time, there was a strict, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy in place that could have jeopardized my career and true-freedom before it ever happened for me.

That didn’t stop my exploration of finding myself, but I was more careful in my approaches. A few weeks prior to leaving for the military I spent a lot of time with my friends. My father asked me to leave the house upon learning I liked women and I was too ashamed to tell my grandmother. On weekends I would stay with her and during the week I’d crash on my friends couches.

I spent a lot of time with Jaimie and Amy that Summer. Amy started hormone therapy and I was blown away at the changes to her voice. I would try on Jaimie’s clothing and too poor or either too scared to buy my own men’s clothing I’d opt to wear hers. That is until my first Walmart purchase at 1am after a work shift when Jaimie, Karla, and I adventure through the men’s section to find what was my very first men’s outfit. It consisted of a striped polo, cargo khaki colored shorts, and finally a sports bra and boxer briefs!

Uncle Sam: (Death of the Femme)

Basic training could have gone smoother had I not opted to wear those new boxers the first night.

They lined us up against the wall lockers and screamed for all articles of clothing to come off. I, like many others stripped down to just my sports bra and boxers. Exposed in more than one way I instantly regretted my choice of underwear. That is until the screaming symphony of TIs shocked me out of that thought and back into action and I began pulling the remaining articles of clothing from my body as fast as I could. Completely naked and bare to strangers we filed into a single line. My body, the last to join the other-foreign bodies, who all seemed to remember the most important part. Pack shower shoes. I ruffled through my bag desperately trying to find a solution. I imagine the comedic relief to the others as I was made to wear the only pair of sneakers/shoes I had with me into the rotation of 8 scorching hot shower heads. If I didn’t want to stand out, I surely had a way of making it happen. I wore those squishy tennis shoes everywhere I went for the remainder of the week until we were allowed to visit the commentary. Which only had the size up from what I needed, but it was better than the tennis shoes and showers became a little more bearable.

I envied my brother flight’s experience. They didn’t have to live with 49 other women all on their periods, (which I started for the second time the second week of basic because, well biology.) They didn’t have to get fitted for the ankle length dress blues skirt or hear screaming at one another over the use of someone’s hair gel, or for someone’s hair falling out of their mildewing hair bun roll while doing push-ups and earning a demerit for the entire flight for it. I’m sure they had their own struggles, but I welcomed them more than my own.

Upon graduation I ended up getting stationed at Travis AFB in California. I spent many nights in my dorm room watching movies and listening to music until I met others to spend time with that I could relate to. I met friends, women who also liked women, but I didn’t feel like I fit with them either. It was a start. In my new sense of freedom, I purchased more men’s clothing. I obtained more guy friends and started living my life as best a I could to avoid the inner turmoil that still existed within me.

One night at the base gas station I came across a film about a trans woman’s experience in life. I felt sick. I had a hatred brewing against anything that felt too close for comfort or served as a reminder that I was trapped in a world that could never allow me; serving my country for freedoms I could not partake in for fear of losing everything I’d worked so hard for. To be labeled unfit or abnormal. Not only in my military career where I’d landed on my false identity as a “butch lesbian” because it was somehow safer than my own understanding of gender identity norms at the time, but also in my personal relationships with those I’d share intimacy.

Did you know that within the Queer Community there are many definitions to what it means to be a lesbian, gay man, etc? Did you also know that there exists a bias toward the Transgender community? A lot of us experience this bias as a betrayal...I certainly did and sometimes, still do encounter it.

Vocabulary and Syntax are funny things, especially when they are weaponized just as you start to feel safe in a community that is supposed to embrace and celebrate differences. Never-the-less, I pushed forward. I found comfort in things that were not comfortable after their effects wore off.

My escapes into bars and nightclubs were riddled with hypocrisy and fear. Choosing to go out with friends, which friends were safe to take along or how I’d explain myself should I happen to be in one of those taboo places by a fellow airman or worse, “OSI” Office of Special Investigation. My sole task was blending in, but I wanted nothing more than to scream out

-I don’t belong here!?

-I don’t feel safe here?!

2008(May the truth set you on fire before they burn you down)

The orders came that I would deploy at a very inconvenient moment in my career/personal a struggle. I began coming to terms with the fact that my absence could be a saving grace but before I left I had this urgent need to tell my family everything I’d been sorting through in therapy relating to my past trauma. With some family members I expected anger, but when that didn’t happen I felt reassured that if they couldn't handle the worst kind of ugly by being supportive, how would they ever support the other secrets I’d locked away that were killing me? It was rough. The time I spent deployed was the most awakening.

The quiet was loud in my head yet; I found comfort in knowing that the things that had hurt me most were thousands of miles away. I felt hope in knowing that if I were not to make it home at least my story didn’t die with me. Only, not a full comfort because I was still locking the rest within the barrel of my chest. I felt relief in knowing that coming home any other way would be disgraceful and truly felt as though I had purpose.

Some days I’d wish for peace in the form

The crisis I was going through with my gender identity paled in comparison with the haunting nature of my past. Suddenly, all of those bad and dark things started affecting me more than they had ever before because my knowledge of their abnormalities and exposure to other cultures and customs made me realize that I finally had to start talking about them to get through them and over them, to heal. I knew that I had to fix those things first and felt like maybe in fixing them, I too, could make the male parts of my brain and the longing for them go away.

To be continued…

In case you wanted to know the reasoning behind my choice or are interested: Follow along…

Jayce (Hebrew, same as my prior name) “healer” or “the Lord is salvation”. Includes my favorite aspects of my prior name.

Bodie ( Bodie is a former gold-mining town and State Historic Park in California’s Bodie Hills, near the Nevada border.)

The boy's name Bodie \b(o)-die\ is a variant of Boden (Scandinavian, Old French), and the meaning of Bodie is "shelter; one who brings news". Same as my grandmother’s name Evangeline.

"Awakened" or "Enlightenment" The Buddhist concept of Bodhi is spiritual awakening and freedom from the cycle of life. Bodhi is also the name of the sacred ficus tree (ficus religiosa) under which Lord Buddha sat and obtained his enlightenment.

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katamount · 7 years

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Was the mockingjay a symbol of the rebellion before Katniss wore the pin in the games?

At first glance, Madge’s visit with Katniss after the reaping seems straightforward, but upon rereading — and knowing the importance of the mockingjay as a symbol of the rebellion — Collins’ description of the “urgency about [Madge’s] tone” feels much more freighted with significance. Also, it would appear that in her choice of words, Collins is signaling to the reader to take note of the pin (which had also appeared in chapter 1): “I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but now I see it’s a small bird in flight.” (emphasis added)

As the scene unfolds in chapter 3, Madge presses Katniss to take it:

“Here, I’ll put it on your dress, all right?” Madge doesn’t wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird that my dress. “Promise you’ll wear it to the arena, Katniss?” she asks. “Promise?” [emphasis added]

Why the urgency with Madge pinning the mockingjay on Katniss before she departs for the Capitol? And would Madge have known that the mockingjay had any association with the rebellion after the Dark Days? My feeling is that if Madge knew the mockingjay was associated with the rebellion in any way, in all likelihood, her father would’ve known it too. And if that were the case, Mayor Undersee almost certainly wouldn’t have allowed her to wear the pin on reaping day. (And that would be true even if he were a rebel sympathizer, because Madge wearing the pin could have dangerous repercussions for both of them.)

We learn later, in Catching Fire, that the pin had belonged to Madge’s aunt, Maysilee Donner, who had been a tribute in the 50th Games, along with Haymitch. This will (I hope) be fodder for another post when we get to CF in the reread. But, as far as I know, the text does not explicitly say whether Maysilee wore the pin during her Games.

Katniss doesn’t recognize the bird on the pin as a mockingjay until she is on the tribute train, and as soon as she does, she observes that mockingjays are “something of a slap in the face to the Capitol.” She explains how the Capitol muttation jabberjays spied on the rebels — and after the rebels realized it, they turned the tables and “fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it.

So... the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

Only they didn’t die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds creating a whole new species… [emphasis added]

Mockingjays are associated with the earlier rebels because they co-opted the jabberjays, and they symbolize the rebellion, because despite the Capitol’s attempts to eradicate it, its principles lived on. Later, in Catching Fire, Katniss tells us:

A mockingjay is a creature the Capitol never intended to exist. They hadn’t counted on the highly controlled jabberjay having the brains to adapt to the wild, to pass on its genetic code, to thrive in a new form. They hadn’t anticipated its will to live. [emphasis added]

Presumably, Katniss only knows about the earlier rebels’ use of the jabberjays because her father told her the story. Similarly the principles of the rebellion survived and were passed along between generations and with other trusted district residents.

Would Madge have known about the origins and associations of the mockingjay? Obviously Katniss has better knowledge of the flora and fauna of the district than almost anyone, and had a father who espoused anti-Capitol beliefs. But in CF, she also mentions that mockingjays are very common, so Madge probably would’ve been aware of them, even if she hadn’t been given a mockingjay pin that had belonged to her late aunt. (And why a mockingjay pin would’ve been in the Donner family for a long time — as Madge says in CF — is a whole other question.)

Do we know how prevalent mockingjays are across Panem? Aside from 12, we learn Rue was familiar with them in 11, and Twill (who is from 8) points out the mockingjay that appears in the old footage of 13, which implies Twill probably knew about them in 8. The more widespread the birds are, the more likely that the story of their association with the rebels would have spread across the districts.

Madge is a bit of a cipher in the trilogy, with a small but significant role. She’s one of a very few people Katniss likes and trusts, she’s not stuck up about her status as the mayor’s daughter, and she holds her own when Gale is a jerk to her. In several ways, I feel Collins suggests that Madge is nobody’s fool. But Collins is a little cagey with her implications about Madge’s motivations. Madge’s sense of urgency while giving the pin to Katniss implies that there’s an important reason for it — but it’s odd that her district token (“one thing to remind [her] of home”) would be something she’d never seen before that day. But on the other hand, in CF (after Katniss learns the pin once belonged to Madge’s aunt), K mentions that the mockingjay is an odd choice “because of what happened in the rebellion. With the jabberjays backfiring on the Capitol and all.” In her response, Madge seems to downplay its significance, and imply she’s not aware of its symbolic associations with the rebels: “‘But mockingjays were never a weapon,’ said Madge. “They’re just songbirds. Right?” [But I like @arabeth-thea’s idea that Madge may have believed that her home was bugged, which would lead her to make an evasive remark like this to protect both of them.]

Regardless of whether Madge knew that the mockingjay was beginning to be associated with the underground rebellion, textual evidence implies that in the Capitol, the mockingjay was not widely recognized as a symbol of the rebellion prior to the 74th Games. In chapter 10 of THG, Cinna pins the mockingjay on Katniss’ shirt just before she enters the arena, and tells her, “It barely cleared the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually, they let it through.” (emphasis added) We don’t know who sat on the review board, but it makes sense that it would include a few Gamemakers, who presumably are well-connected in the Capitol. (Of course, it’s plausible that it might include someone with ties to the rebellion as well.) But a review board examined and discussed the mockingjay pin at some length (as a potential weapon) and concluded it did not pose a substantial threat. I love the irony that it posed a much more potent threat as a symbol.

Why did Madge wear the pin on reaping day? My feeling is that Maysilee probably did not wear the pin in the Games, because if she had, it would’ve been much too much of a provocation for Madge to wear it that day. (Plus, did the families of fallen tributes get their children’s tokens back?) The text (CF) supports (at a minimum) the idea that Madge wore the mockingjay pin for personal reasons, to honor her aunt who died in the Games. But that in itself is a subtle political act — a quiet form of protest against the Games and the lasting impact they had on Madge’s family. However, I’m warming to the idea that Madge must have known about the mockingjay’s association with the rebellion, partly because I can’t think of any other likely explanation for her urgency in giving the pin to Katniss and practically insisting that she wear it in the arena.

Some have argued that Madge might have believed she’d be reaped that day, but I’m not convinced of this, and she would’ve had only a handful of slips. Unless the drawing was rigged — perhaps the Capitol would like the idea that no one is safe from the reaping, not even the mayor’s daughter. (And if the Capitol suspected him of anything, that would be a cruel way to punish him.) Or we learn later that victors’ children are sometimes reaped — maybe a fallen tribute’s relative could’ve provided a compelling story line for Capitol viewers.

Madge, like any child of a public figure, would’ve been aware that her behavior reflected on her father — and that probably made her more aware of her image than the average teen in 12. Madge’s wardrobe choices — a white dress and the pin — (and her remark to Gale, “Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don’t I?”) suggest that just in case she was reaped, she was prepared to make an impression. In her white dress, she would’ve looked fresh and innocent, and the pin would’ve helped Haymitch develop her story line.

The lore about mockingjays’ association with the rebellion must have been fairly widespread, but perhaps mockingjays hadn’t yet emerged as a recognized (fully fledged?) symbol of the underground rebellion. Sometimes there’s an idea whose time has come, and I love that Madge had a hand in making that happen, literally pinning it on Katniss.

[edited to add paragraph about the mockingjay probably not being a widely recognized symbol of the rebellion in the Capitol before the 74th Games]

image source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/irenika_w/6798170904

#rethg #The Hunger Games #thg meta #thg analysis #katniss everdeen #madge undersee #mockingjay pin

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