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wooodyguthrie · 10 months

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Phil Ochs : Interview on the Democratic National Convention

When Phil Ochs returned to New York from the chaotic 1968 Democratic National Convention he gave an interview to Izzy Young of the folklore center in Greenwich village.

Transcript by Mitch Abidor under the cut.

IZZY: This is the afternoon of Wednesday, Sept. 4, 1968, In Izzy Young’s apartment and I’m talking to Phil Ochs who has just come back from Chicago.

PHIL: Don’t shoot! Don’t hit me! I’ll talk, I’ll talk! We’re not in Lincoln Park.

IZZY: It seems you were about the only folksinger in Chicago. I mean, Judy Collins didn’t and Pete Seeger didn’t show up, and -

Phil: Peter and Mary showed up __

IZZY: Do you think there’s a good reason why a lot of singers didn’t show up?

PHIL: I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. I’m sure everybody was afraid. I was afraid. And it was sort of vogueish – the folk crowd has always been very much an in-vogue crowd, and it became very vogueish to attack the Yippie festival of life as a festival of death, and it gave them a good reason to stay away. It was almost a cycle: first the underground press ballyhooed the Yippie thing and then there was all this publicity and everybody put their name on the list. And then second thoughts cam in and people started to think, well, this is an exploitation of youth and they’re leading them to a slaughter, and besides they really didn’t want to go anyway. So everybody sort of mutually decide over a two month period – the underground press and the performers – that the whole thing was a shuck.

IZZY: You mean they decided not to go out of fear?

PHIL: I don’t know. That’s pretty strong language. They probably really thought it wasn’t a worthwhile project in terms of confrontation. There really hasn’t been that much involvement of folk people and rock people in the movement since the Civil Rights period except that one period where the anti-war action became in vogue and safe – you know, large numbers of people and all that publicity, and then they showed up.

IZZY: Do you think things are really becoming serious and the singers are afraid to face up to it?

PHIL: I think it’s become more and more like that, yeah. America is in desperate trouble, you know.

IZZY: well, how important is the underground press in all this?

PHIL: The underground press is a vital link. It’s a way to break the censorship of the establishment press, and that is very important. But the underground press is very skittish, too, very immature. But it’s a good thing.

IZZY: I heard there was a tremendous reaction to your singing in Chicago, that it went over very big.

PHIL: Yeah. (Laughs)

IZZY: They really wanted to hear music. But they didn’t have much of a chance. I heard that, in terms of rock music, that was impossible altogether. That was really squelched from the start.

PHIL: There was so much intimidation. On Sunday they tried to get a sound truck through, just for some local bands, and they couldn’t. Police blocked that. Some people were beat up; a guy I know was hit on the back of the head with handcuffs and they cut his head wide open. Anyway the songs I wrote, the political songs, are coming into vogue – I’ll use that word again. I think in ‘63 especially, at the Civil Rights apex, musical esthetics came together with politics, and it was good to be involved with both. And I think now the same thing is happening.

IZZY: where do you find politics mixing with esthetics now? What music groups?

PHIL: I mean just that certain historical movements come more to the fore than mere love of music, and they start to merge. And music becomes very important.

IZZY: can you give me some examples of groups that are that way today? How about Country Joe and the Fish

PHIL: Country Joe and the Fish is a definite example of that.

IZZY: Did you hear about them? I just saw in the Times that they were beaten up in a hotel.

PHIL: Yes, they were beaten up.

IZY: And they didn’t appear anywhere?

PHIL: No, and I understand Joe McDonald gave an interview to the press charging that the Yippies were irresponsible, which I thought very irresponsible on Joe’s part. It’s the kid of stuff that could be used by the Establishment. If people had been killed they would have used stuff like that against the protestors. It was a dangerous thing to do.

IZZY: About how many people were on the march altogether, would you say? The papers said about 15,000.

PHIL: It’s hard to gauge. But that’s a good count. A lot of the bravest people showed up. I mean they were people from around the country who really went through a major personal dilemma. Daley’s pre-convention terror tactics were a success in keeping out large numbers of people. For instance, his threats to set up large scale concentration camps. Daley issued many statements like that, very threatening statements, and these and come succeeded in keeping a lot of people away. But the people who did show up were the toughest, really, and the most dedicated. And a lot of great things happened in the middle of the terror of the police attacks. There was a definite spirit, a good spirit, unleashed in the streets. There was more coming together with Blacks, more than on any other march I’ve seen. A joining of Blacks and whites to resist mutual oppression. Especially in Lincoln Park.

IZZY: On television they kept calling these people – - they kept calling these people outsiders. You know, they’re Americans. How can you call somebody an outsider in his own country?

PHIL: yeah, well, the Chicagoans were unable to recognize that this was a national convention. They literally, psychologically couldn’t. They kept thinking, “This is our city, our convention. “ When it’s a national election they’re talking about. I’m really beginning to question the basic sanity of the American public. I think the public itself is just -- I think more and more politicians are really becoming pathological liars, and I think many members of the public are. I think the Daily News, Tribune poisoning that comes out is literally creating – and television, all the media are creating a really mentally ill, unbalanced public. And it’s significant. I think what happened in Chicago was the final death of democracy in America as we know it: the total, final takeover of the fascist military state – in one city, at least.

IZZY: Most people have no contact with the politicians who are selecting the nominees.

PHIL: well, in that sense, it was a major victory for the street people in terms of unmasking the facts. But still, basically, there’s been opportunities to deal with the convention system and come up with decent candidates; you know, the conventions did produce Adlai Stevenson and John Kennedy. But now, I can’t accept this election. I can’t see myself being loyal to a Nixon or a Humphrey administration. I don’t think there’s any choice. I think the final corruption has com home, the final – the ugliness and corruption of a South Vietnamese election which is a non-election has come to America, and now Americans are faced with a South Vietnamese election.

IZZY: Do you think there’ll be any results from this unmasking, from this education of the American people, so to speak? I mean, are they going to be more radical, eventually, because of it – the way some of the kids feel?

PHIL: I’m not sure; it’s definitely one process of radicalization and definitely another process of reaction against it.

IZZY: And the reaction against it is stronger.

PHIL: Yes, I’m afraid the reaction is stronger than the radicalization. And it seriously makes me wonder about the country. How much does this country have a right to exist at all, especially with the kind of power it has?

IZZY: I think the question always boils down to: can you change the country, or do you have to destroy the country?

PHIL: Yeah, right. I’ve always tried to hang onto the idea of saving the country, but at this point I could be persuaded to destroy it. For the first time I feel this way.

IZZY: I was with some girls from Germany yesterday, and they said, “You can talk to the Establishment people, you can be nice to these people.” And I said, “You can be nice to Jacqueline Kennedy all day long and present beautiful arguments to her, and then she’ll say no at the end of the day in very cultured language.” What I mean is that the people in control are not going to give up their mode of income, and that’s the only way the system can be changed. Did you come across any of that in the delegates there? I mean were there any delegates who showed an active support for the Yippies, the kids who want to change things?

PHIL: By the end some delegates were marching with the kids in the streets.

IZZY: You mean the Wisconsin delegation?

PHIL: Yes, and some New York people too.

IZZY: What about in the beginning?

PHIL: I’m sure there was mutual sympathy at the beginning. But they couldn’t show it. Chicago was just a total, absolute police state. A police state from top to bottom. I mean it was totally controlled and vicious.

IZZY: The police beat up about forty news people, and yet the news people on the radio and on television were on the side of Daley almost uniformly. In New York most of them later would say, “Well, Daley was just doing his job, taking orders from Johnson and Humphrey.” I heard your voice just for a moment one the radio. And you were the only person quoted among the folk singers. You said: “This was not Daley, this was Daley doing a job for Johnson and Humphrey.” Do you think McCarthy could have said more than he did?

PHIL: Yeah, you have to fault McCarthy for lack of dynamics and not being more outspoken. I mean it should have been summed up. There should have been a very literate and clear-cut case made against the police right there by a man of McCarthy’s stature.

IZZY: That didn’t happen.

PHIL: It happened in little bits. He and McGovern at different times spoke out. But there was nothing sustained, nothing up to the occasion. There was a defijnite lack of leadership on McCarthy’s part.

IZZY: Ted Kennedy could have said something.

PHIL: All these so-called liberals kept their mouths shut. They’re all still being good Germans, even up to today. I believe this election should be boycotted. It shouldn’t be taken seriously. That section of the middle class who went for McCarthy and Kennedy should somehow organize themselves and break away from loyalty to the present government. But it could be that the country is so diseased that it just can’t function on any kind of a decent level. T may be that the country has to be destroyed from without. That seems as likely as anything. All we’re getting is more and more repression.

IZZY: Wallace will get a lot of votes.

PHIL: Yeah, I think Wallace will get a huge amount of votes in this election.

IZZY: I think the liberal people will accept that too, now.

PHIL: probably, and when they do that’s the end. I really don’t know what to say. At a certain point, I’m going to become an enemy of the state. I’m not going to be an American any longer. I’m going to be an enemy of the Americans.

IZZY: Yeah. But how can you be an enemy of America in America? What can you do? Sabotage?

PHIL: No, not that. I might leave the country.

IZZY: I can’t see a guerrilla movement in America, actually, because the guerrilla movement, I think, would be destroyed. What other country could you go to?

PHIL: I might go back to Scotland.

IZZY: How can that help things in America?

PHIL: At a certain point you start losing interest in helping things in America.

IZZY: I’m also faced with the choice of leaving. I just got a letter from Africa and the writer says, “Gee, Izzy, I’m always thinking about what you’re saying, that the people who go to Canada aren’t helping people in America.” Phil, if you leave America, you’re making it harder for thousands of people that believe in you. You’re already more than an individual. You stand for an idea already, and you can’t just leave your followers behind.

PHIL: It’s not fair. (Laughs)

IZZY: Dylan doesn’t care. Judy Collins doesn’t care. Or they’d speak out openly. But you do care. And you do speak out openly.

PHIL: You can’t presume to say that Dylan and Collins don’t care. I’m sure they care.

IZZY: well, I feel that when a person has access to mass media and they keep quiet that means they don’t give a damn what’s happening to the people. In other words, getting Judy Collins on a TV spectacular doesn’t help the cause of freedom or peace or anything.

PHIL: it’s just that at this point America is an uncontrolled death machine. And since she failed in electoral politics to check that, it has to be checked in other ways. And one way would be a mass denial of manpower to its corporations. The extension of draft resistance: keep your body out of the Army; a” right, keep your body out of the college and out of the university. That is just preparing you for the corrupt corporation. Keep pulling people away from the establishment until it collapses.

IZZY: I don’t think it would collapse. If the intelligent people pull out the corporations would be happy.

PHIL: I’m not talking about intellectuals only. I’m talking about all the people who work for corporations.

IZZY: Well, they’re not leaving.

PHIL: No. I’m only looking for a way to get them to quit.

IZZY: I don’t think there is a way. These guys are getting their $15,000, their $20,000; they’ve got a taste of the honey and they want more.

PHIL: All right, then America I the rule of the devil. The devil has won.

IZZY: Is there any country where you see a possibility of human advancement?

PHIL: I think Mao could be the most important man in the world right now.

IZZY: Mao’s is one of the few Communist nations to criticize the Soviet Union for Czechoslovakia, whereas Castro went along with it.

PHIL: Which provided an incredible psychological blow to the left in America, which romantically almost equates Cuba and China. Which I still do. What is happening is that America is forcing the world into this kind of military protection. It’s the same thing; what the Chicago police did, and the kind of attitude that Mayor Daley has, is the same kind of thinking that was going on with John Foster Dulles. That policy forced Russia, more and more, into this protective position – this over-defensive position – which led to Czechoslovakia. You can trace Czechoslovakia to John Foster Dulles. And you can trace Mayor Daley and the Chicago police to the same kind of reaction.

IZZY: So Dubcek didn’t have a chance from the start, then?

PHIL: He had much less of a chance with a crazy America running around. You know, from the Russian point of view, America is a mad dog loose around the world. What it will lead to is lots more assassination; terror will start in Europe against American business. I mean America is buying Europe, America is completely buying Europe. Economic brutality, you know, comes before police brutality.

IZZY: I agree with you completely on that. I’ve been saying for two years – my friends say I’m crazy – that America is going to be destroyed from the outside, not from the inside.

PHIL: From both.

IZZY: When Bob Kennedy is killed by an Arab that shows how American imperialism has pervaded the whole world. Christian Arabs are one of the smallest minorities in the world; there are only a few hundred thousand of them – but if they get angry they can kill a Kennedy. That means almost anybody no could kill an American and get away with it.

PHIL: We’re helping every government towards hell. Maybe America is the final end of the Biblical prophecy: we’re all going to end up in fire this time. America represents the absolute rule of money, just absolute money controlling everything to the total detriment of humanity and morals. It’s not so much the rule of America as it is the rule of money. And the money happens to be in America. And that combination is eating away at everybody. It destroys the souls of everybody that it touches, beginning with the people in power.

IZZY: There’s one man, Mao, who is trying to change all that. He’s trying to change the character of the Chinese people in one generation; do you think he’ll succeed?

PHIL: It’s going to be very difficult. More importantly, Mao has rally succeeded in spreading an international revolutionary feeling. In his lifetime he physically transformed China and set the basis for a sensible world revolution. And in the years when he’s supposed to be retired or dead, he had managed to mentally psych out the world. You can trace a lot of what happened in Paris and what happened in Chicago to Mao Tse Tung and the Red Guards; the whole idea of transfer of power to youth and thereby salvaging the militancy of the Revolution. Which I happen to think is a very noble effort.

IZZY: Phil, while you’re saying all this I’m thinking of folk music ad how that can possibly fit into the way the future is going to be.

PHIL: well, by the use of brute force by America internally and on the world, resistance will have to be formed step by step. In music, things like the Newport Folk Festival will have to be radicalized.

IZZY: Yeah, but there was no radicalization in Newport this year.

PHIL: No, there wasn’t; there should have been.

IZZY: I man zero, and you had some supposedly left-wing people trying to run it as directors. This year they ran amuk with country-western singers who are for the war. When Roy Acuff got the humanitarian award they gave it to him for his many appearances for the troops overseas.

PHIL: yeah, well... As a middle-aged Jewish merchant in America, you are in trouble, Izzy. That’s all I can say.

IZZY: I hear that from other people.

PHIL: We’re all in trouble.

IZZY: How do you stay sane? How do you stay sane in America? That’s the problem I have; how can you actually stay sane?

PHIL: I don’t know. That’s what I think about right now. I’ve always felt a contact with political reality from 1960 to 1968. But after Chicago I’m totally disoriented. I’m disoriented because the time has come for guns, and I’m not personally ready for guns. America’s such a violent country. The American revolution is going to be ridiculously bloody.

IZZY: Do you see a resistance growing in America? Is that possible?

PHIL: I’m just not sure.

IZZY: I think other things are happening which illustrate what you’re talking about. There is a tremendous discontent among the workers, even though they’re getting supposedly higher salaries. They’re not happy at all. And the next step would be for the workers to try and understand why they are not happy. It’s not so much that they have bad working hours or low wages. It’s just that they are not part of anything. I think the worker knows it but he hasn’t formulated what to do about it. In other words the workers hate the Kennedys and they hate the Melons [sic] and the Rockefellers, but they’re still afraid even to say it openly. They see the advertisements on TV and in the subway: travel to beautiful Bermuda. But now they’re beginning to realize they can’t go to Bermuda, you know – fly to Hawaii and all that stuff.

PHIL: I disagree with you. Part of the problem is that a lot of them can vacation in Bermuda. This part of the problem is the entrenching of the working class’s right wing by the bosses giving them an extra amount of money, which is what Hitler did, and what’s going on in America right now. And that’s the most dangerous aspect.

IZZY: Do you see any rebellion among the managerial class?

PHIL: I do see more sign of discontent from the managerial class -much more.

IZZY: How do you see it? How is it showing? What’s the visible form of it?

PHIL: The visible form was people like me participating in the McCarthy/Kennedy drive. I saw how elements of the middle class and the upper-middle class could be brought out in large numbers and contribute large sums of money to try to get a basic change in American policy. That’s the major fact that was overlooked in the Chicago convention. It had already been clearly shown that the American public would get behind decent candidates. Most of those people who came out were from the managerial class.

IZZY: Do you think they could force McCarthy to go on a fourth ticket?

PHIL: If McCarthy had the right personality, yes. But I think he’s too much a member of the democratic Establishment himself to make that break. We still need a Kennedy.

IZZY: I’ve always disagreed with you on a Kennedy.

PHIL: I know you have. But I still think that way.

IZZY: I don’t, because I feel that a man like that can’t help the people unless he changes the mode of his own income. He has to give the example. He can’t keep taking a dollar from every bottle of whiskey coming from England to America. He has to work for his living, and until he does I don’t believe a man like that can possibly change anything. I mean, I wonder why they kill only the Kennedys. Many of the rulers of this country lounge around on inherited wealth.

PHIL: The Kennedys went out of their way to flirt with the American public, and the American public is totally infatuated with death. Anybody who flirts with the American public is taking a chance with their life...

IZZY: Do you feel that wiping out McCarthy wiped you out, too?

PHIL: It wiped out that part of me that was interested in electoral politics. But I do feel frustrated all around.

IZZY: Yeah, we still have the same problem.

PHIL: Yes. And that problem is can America be saved. And for the first time in eight years I question whether it can. I think it’s quite possible the country is so far gone and decayed that there may be no way left to save it, and that the only logical course for the progress of mankind is the destruction of America.

IZZY: America has pushed everybody to the edge of the cliff. It’s forcing people to make this kind of decision: shall I enjoy what’s left of my life and forget everyone else, or should I devote myself to working for a better world. If you can’t do either then you just have to leave. And if you leave, you get the inevitable feeling that you’re copping out.

PHIL: Well, I may cop out. But the basic thing I feel is that there’s going to be death and destruction as far ahead as one can see now. That’s all I can possibly see.

IZZY: I can see that if I continue my radio program and give concerts and put out my newsletter then I’m going to be shot, or I’ll have to shoot somebody else. But I still can’t imagine coming to that point.

PHIL: I can see it happening to you. Our only hope is the emergence of a politically tempered international youth movement which will involve itself in international revolution.

IZZY: How do you feel that writing songs can help such a movement?

PHIL: I’m not so sure that they can. The radical German students think that it’s past that stage. The songs themselves aren’t enough obviously. The songs are an adjunct to the movement, essentially, which is why the Chicago experience was really interesting for me. Let me explain: there the songs were being used in a totally non-professional, non-show business, non-paying, non-staged situation. It was an integral part of the movement while things were happening, and therefore the words and music had their greatest possible effect...

I’ve got to go. Thanks a lot, Izzy. It was nice being here on this September day, in this rotting country.

IZZY: One more question, Phil. Do you think Dylan is a secret revolutionary? In other words, he’s reaching more people and changing their minds without them realizing it. A sort of subliminal revolutionary.

PHIL: I think it’s possible. It’s possible for any writer, depending on the quality of his work, to function in that way. Brecht faced it as a responsibility. He said to himself, here I am, a writer, and I can write things that can change peoples’ minds therefore do I belong in the street getting my skull cracked which may damage my writing, or should I stay out of the way of the charging police and create my plays? Where is the primary responsibility? To me, Phil Ochs, the answer is obvious.

IZZY: Anyone who has any control in the mass media has a responsibility to speak out, both as an artist doing his or her work, and separately as an individual. Definitely, the case now is that most people won’t speak out anymore.

PHIL: But there are always those artists that function outside the active realm of politics.

IZZY: I prefer the example of William Blake, who dreamt of Jerusalem and heaven and hell; but when Tom Paine was in England and I was dangerous to harbour him, William Blake was hiding him in his own home. So William Blake knew what was going on politically even though he had his own private world as a mystic poet.

PHIL: If you’d been around at that time, you’d probably have condemned Blake for not issuing a statement to the London Times about what was wrong with the King’s politics.

IZZY: Oh, no. That wouldn’t have been necessary. Blake went on one of the few marches of the century against the King. And that was a very dangerous thing to do. But it was his way of speaking out. He believed in his vision and the only way he could protect his vision was by fighting for it.

#links #history #musicians #phil ochs #izzy young #nyc folklore center #1968 democratic national convention

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deadpresidents · 8 months

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vimeo

Here's the phone call between Lady Bird Johnson and LBJ from March 7, 1964 where Lady Bird is reviewing President Johnson's performance at a televised press conference, showing a very different side of both Lady Bird and LBJ, as mentioned in my last post.

This is from the LBJ Library's awesome LBJ Tapes website, created in conjunction with the University of Virginia's Miller Center, which specializes in Presidential history. The LBJ Tapes website features an archive of audio and transcripts of LBJ's taped phone calls that you can search or browse through depending on details such as the topic of conversation, date of the phone call, or names of the participants of the calls (which include people like Lady Bird, Martin Luther King Jr., Jacqueline Kennedy, Gerald Ford, Robert F. Kennedy, Ted Kennedy, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Harry S. Truman, Richard Nixon, Hubert Humphrey, and scores of other important historical figures).

You can really spend days exploring the LBJ Tapes website, and some of the more fascinating topics like LBJ's calls in the hours and days following JFK's assassination where he's becoming more comfortable in the Presidency and begins asking (and, in some cases, ordering) people to serve on the Warren Commission, or LBJ's behind-the-scenes machinations during the 1968 Presidential campaign, as MLK and then RFK are assassinated, the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention spins out of control and Richard Nixon's campaign makes some shady moves with the Vietnamese to help ensure their own victory. On all of these calls, you hear the real Lyndon B. Johnson and they give an eye-opening definition to the "Johnson Treatment".

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thenewdemocratus · 9 months

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Passionate Patriots: 1968 DNC Nightmare in Chicago

. Source:FRS FreeState The Democratic Party cost themselves the presidential election of 1968 and a chance to win the White House for a third straight time and 8-10 presidential elections, going back to 1932 with FDR. To go along with another Democratic Congress because of how divided they were on the Vietnam War. A lot of that can be blamed on President Johnson’s handling of the Vietnam War, but…

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pitch-and-moan · 9 months

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The Trial of the Trial of the Chicago 7

An AI-penned remake of the courtroom dramedy, but without actors. instead it's a single, static shot of a courtroom interspersed with stock footage of the 1968 Democratic National Convention.

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todaysdocument · 8 months

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Chicago Police Department Officers confront protestors in Grant Park during the Democratic National Convention, August 28, 1968.

Record Group 21: Records of District Courts of the United States

Series: Criminal Case Files

File Unit: United States v Dellinger, et al.

Image description: Zoomed-in portion of photo, showing two rows police officers in helmets, carrying batons. They are moving forward against a large crowd of protestors, who are retreating.

Image description: Panoramic photo of rows of police officers in helmets, carrying batons, moving forward against a large crowd of protestors, who are retreating. In the background is a stage.

#archivesgov #August 28 #1968 #1960s #Vietnam War #protests #Democratic National Convention #police

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agelessphotography · 4 months

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Frustrated peace demonstrators refused permission to march to the convention hall, are hemmed in by grim lines of blue-helmeted Chicago police, Leonard McCombe, 1968

#photography #vintage photography #vintage #leonard mccombe #1960s #1968 #protest #photojournalism #democratic national convention #chicago #color photography #illinois #police

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balladofhollisbrown · 3 months

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protestors chant "the whole world is watching!" at the 1968 national democratic convention, chicago

#1968 national democratic convention #protests #protest #1968 #chicago #youth international party #yippies #yippie #history #anti war #vietnam war

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beatleshistoryblog · 1 year

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youtube

LECTURE 18: COMING APART (PART 1): “In 1968,” wrote Presidential historian Theodore H. White, “the name Chicago won a significance far beyond date and place. It became the title of an episode, like Waterloo, or Versailles, or Munich.” This footage shows the chaos and turmoil in the streets of Chicago in August 1968, as police moved into the street to battle protesters (and a fair number of innocent bystanders) during the Democratic National Convention in August. Inside the convention hall, Democrats battled for the soul of their party, deeply divided by the catastrophic war unfolding in Vietnam.

#1968 #Chicago #Democratic National Convention #protest #dissent #upheaval #Theodore H. White #Vietnam War #Democratic Party #police #riots

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roycen · 2 years

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youtube

#Negative XP #Cops Beating Down on Hippie Scum at the 1968 Democratic National Convention

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 days

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1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defending you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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ausetkmt · 11 months

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Black women have made important contributions to the United States throughout its history. However, they are not always recognized for their efforts, with some remaining anonymous and others becoming famous for their achievements. In the face of gender and racial bias, Black women have broken barriers, challenged the status quo, and fought for equal rights for all. The accomplishments of Black female historical figures in politics, science, the arts, and more continue to impact society.

Marian Anderson (Feb. 27, 1897–April 8, 1993)

Underwood Archives / Getty Images

Contralto Marian Anderson is considered one of the most important singers of the 20th century. Known for her impressive three-octave vocal range, she performed widely in the U.S. and Europe, beginning in the 1920s. She was invited to perform at the White House for President Franklin Roosevelt and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt in 1936, the first African American so honored. Three years later, after the Daughters of the American Revolution refused to allow Anderson to sing at a Washington, D.C. gathering, the Roosevelts invited her to perform on the steps of the Lincon Memorial.

Anderson continued to sing professionally until the 1960s when she became involved in politics and civil rights issues. Among her many honors, Anderson received the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1963 and a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award in 1991.

Mary McLeod Bethune (July 10, 1875–May 18, 1955)

PhotoQuest / Getty Images

Mary McLeod Bethune was an African American educator and civil rights leader best known for her work co-founding the Bethune-Cookman University in Florida. Born into a sharecropping family in South Carolina, the young Bethune had a zest for learning from her earliest days. After stints teaching in Georgia, she and her husband moved to Florida and eventually settled in Jacksonville. There, she founded the Daytona Normal and Industrial Institute in 1904 to provide education for Black girls. It merged with the Cookman Institute for Men in 1923, and Bethune served as president for the next two decades.

A passionate philanthropist, Bethune also led civil rights organizations and advised Presidents Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, and Franklin Roosevelt on African American issues. In addition, President Harry Truman invited her to attend the founding convention of the United Nations; she was the only African American delegate to attend.

Shirley Chisholm (Nov. 30, 1924–Jan. 1, 2005)

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Shirley Chisholm is best known for her 1972 bid to win the Democratic presidential nomination; she was the first Black woman to make this attempt in a major political party. However, she had been active in state and national politics for more than a decade and had represented parts of Brooklyn in the New York State Assembly from 1965 to 1968. She became the first Black woman to serve in Congress in 1968. During her tenure, she co-founded the Congressional Black Caucus. Chisholm left Washington in 1983 and devoted the rest of her life to civil rights and women's issues.

Althea Gibson (Aug. 25, 1927–Sept. 28, 2003)

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Althea Gibson started playing tennis as a child in New York City, winning her first tennis tournament at age 15. She dominated the American Tennis Association circuit, reserved for Black players, for more than a decade. In 1950, Gibson broke the tennis color barrier at Forest Hills Country Club (site of the U.S. Open); the following year, she became the first African American to play at Wimbledon in Great Britain. Gibson continued to excel at the sport, winning both amateur and professional titles through the early 1960s.

Dorothy Height (March 24, 1912–April 20, 2010)

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Dorothy Height has been described as the godmother of the women's movement because of her work for gender equality. For four decades, she led the National Council of Negro Women (NCNW )and was a leading figure in the 1963 March on Washington. Height began her career as an educator in New York City, where her work caught the attention of Eleanor Roosevelt. Beginning in 1957, she led the NCNW and also advised the Young Women's Christian Association (YWCA). She received the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1994.

Rosa Parks (Feb. 4, 1913–Oct. 24, 2005)

Underwood Archives / Getty Images

Rosa Parks became active in the Alabama civil rights movement after marrying activist Raymond Parks in 1932. She joined the Montgomery, Alabama, chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) in 1943 and was involved in much of the planning that went into the famous bus boycott that began the following decade. Parks is best known for her December 1, 1955, arrest for refusing to give up her bus seat to a White rider. That incident sparked the 381-day Montgomery Bus Boycott, which eventually desegregated that city's public transit. Parks and her family moved to Detroit in 1957, and she remained active in civil rights until her death.

Augusta Savage (Feb. 29, 1892–March 26, 1962)

Archive Photos / Sherman Oaks Antique Mall / Getty Images

Augusta Savage displayed an artistic aptitude from her youngest days. Encouraged to develop her talent, she enrolled in New York City's Cooper Union to study art. She earned her first commission, a sculpture of civil rights leader W.E.B. Du Bois, from the New York library system in 1921, and several other commissions followed. Despite meager resources, she continued working through the Great Depression, making sculptures of several notable Black people, including Frederick Douglass and W. C. Handy. Her best-known work, "The Harp," was featured at the 1939 World's Fair in New York, but it was destroyed after the fair ended.

Harriet Tubman (1822–March 20, 1913)

Library of Congress

Enslaved from birth in Maryland, Harriet Tubman escaped to freedom in 1849. The year after she arrived in Philadelphia, Tubman returned to Maryland to free her family members. Over the next 12 years, she returned nearly 20 times, helping more than 300 enslaved Black people escape bondage by ushering them along the Underground Railroad. The "railroad" was the nickname for a secret route that enslaved Black people used to flee the South for anti-slavery states in the North and to Canada. During the Civil War, Tubman worked as a nurse, a scout, and a spy for Union forces. After the war, she worked to establish schools for formerly enslaved people in South Carolina. In her later years, Tubman also became involved in women's rights causes.

Phillis Wheatley (May 8, 1753–Dec. 5, 1784)

Culture Club/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Born in Africa, Phillis Wheatley came to the U.S. at age 8, when she was captured and sold into enslavement. John Wheatley, the Boston man who enslaved her, was impressed by Phillis' intellect and interest in learning, and he and his wife taught her to read and write. The Wheatleys allowed Phillis time to pursue her studies, which led her to develop an interest in poetry writing. A poem she published in 1767 earned her much acclaim. Six years later, her first volume of poems was published in London, and she became known in both the U.S. and the United Kingdom. The Revolutionary War disrupted Wheatley's writing, however, and she was not widely published after it ended.

Charlotte Ray (Jan. 13, 1850–Jan. 4, 1911)

Charlotte Ray has the distinction of being the first African American woman lawyer in the United States and the first woman admitted to the bar in the District of Columbia. Her father, active in New York City's Black community, made sure his young daughter was well educated; she received her law degree from Howard University in 1872 and was admitted to the Washington, D.C., bar shortly afterward. Both her race and gender proved to be obstacles in her professional career, and she eventually became a teacher in New York City instead.

#10 of the Most Important Black Women in U.S. History #Black Women #Black Women Matter #Black Lives Matter #us history

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