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zeciex · 5 years

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Obsidian & Angelite Ch. 16 part I

Oya has spend centuries bound to one single plot of land when one day a stranger with a voice of velvet and presence that can only be described as dark and outmost interesting. He comes with an offer she can’t refuse and suddenly her entire world changes, both for better and worse.

But what does Langdon need of her? And how can she use him to get what she want? Maybe they’re bound by something bigger than fate.

Warning: Dark themes,

A/N: Since tumblr kills everything with links, I’ll reblog this post with the links to previous chapters and archive link

Apocalypse Now Part I

The first week of the apocalypse she had spend in a concrete bunker with some of Michaels ‘associates’ that was really just a nice word for servants or followers. Michael himself had kissed her goodbye for the next three months and sent her away to that cold little grey prison. If he had been there she might have slapped him for not warning her.

And then she was taken away, wrapped in a strange plastic suit that should stand as a protection against the radioactive outside. They drow for what felt like hours and without the sun upon the ever grey sky it was hard to tell how much time really did pass. Everything was burned to a crisp. Ash and bones and remnants of what was before standing as a solome graveyard. In some areas, there was nothing, just dust, while in others the skillet of buildings tumbling down served as society headstones in a world that tried to forget what was before.

They came to an area where burned bushes and trees begged for the sun to shine through the massive layer of dust that encapsulated the world. By the time the sun was to show its face once more, the plants would be long dead and gone. It saddened her, to see nature well past its breaking point.

They drow through black gates and guided her off the car before leaving her in the middle of nowhere alone. And for a few moments, she was alone, completely, with the destruction weighing in on her.

From within a strange sculpture of sort appeared two black dressed figures with masks that resembled plague doctors. At first, they sized her up with unreadable faces hidden by the mask, the next they mentioned for her to follow. They took an elevator down into the ground.

After she had been disinfected and cleared she was allowed to take off the suffocating space suit she had come to find both all too hot and cold at the same time. She was lead out into the hallway and found the tiles were all the same, lighted up by candles that cast a warm glow along with deep shadows. It was strange to be underground, a place where the dead had been buried for millenniums, now a place protection.

“I am Wilhelmina Venable and welcome to Outpost 3.” Her voice travelled along the stones, cold and distant. Venable looked gothic, to say the least, controlled in every aspect of her, with dark lips and even darker eyes. So this was the woman Michael had chosen to run the outpost. Oya couldn’t exactly say she agreed with his decision but of course, like with everything else Michael had a plan and if that plan had her playing someone smaller than who she really was, then so be it.

As she followed the gothic woman through the bunker she began talking. Telling Oya of the sorting of Purples, the elite as she called them, and the Greys. Then about the rules, the strict no sex policy that’d end with a bullet between your eyes were you not to follow it and the schedule. The apocalypse had given Venable the chance to remake this tiny little world inside the safety of these walls in her image.

Oya could already tell that it was going to be a long 3 months.

After changing her comfortable clothing into a tight corset and purple victorian dress, she joined the rest of the inhabitants in Outpost 3 in the library. The woman with dark short hair and round figure she had come to know as Mrs. Mead introduced her to everyone else with a cold disinterested voice Venable would have been proud of.

“This is our newest arrival, Oya Jeon.”

“Did you pay your way to get in here too?” A blond ask with a stringy and obnoxious voice. Before Oya could answer Mrs. Mead did it for her. “Not everyone paid their way into the new world.”

“Then what, huh?” All attention was now on Oya, immediately labelled as someone not like them.

“She has a PhD in botany. Someone has to be able to grow the new world,” Mrs. Mead bit back and left her to the wolves. Oya looked over them, one by one. They were a pathetic gathering in her opinion. Why Michael decided to give her a degree in botany of all the things she could have been given were beyond her. He could have made her a doctor or engineer, something more impressive than plants.

“I would have thought they’d have Mexicans with their skills in gardening and not some china-doll,” the oldest woman spoke before throwing back her drink. The causality of her racism seemed to make everyone in the room roll their eyes and even made the obvious gay man with short blond hair visibly uncomfortable.

“I’m Korean and if you want anything to eat whenever the radiation is gone you’ll need a person with knowledge of plants and a greenthumb,” Oya spoke not stumbling the slightest under the narrow glare the old bitch send her. The blond man laughed uncomfortably and approached Oya, reaching out to touch her hair. She couldn’t help but frown and lean back as he took a strand of her hair between her fingers, looking over it with interest.

“My god, you do have beautiful hair! I would love to set it some time,” he spoke, walking behind her to lift up the rest as if he was already starting to piece together what to do with it. A blond woman abruptly stood up, fist in balls at her sides, while her pink lips were cast downwards. She glared intensely at the two of them.

“You’re my hairdresser! Without me and my ticket you’d be dead by now!” She exclaimed childishly. “Her hair is not even that great.”

And so life in the bunker began, wrapped in torturous corsets, outdated dresses and lace while being fed the most boring meal of all time in the form of a tiny little cube. Michael was going to pay for this.

The old hag Evie proved to be the most annoying of all. She was a relic of a time long past even before the apocalypse, cast in old time glamour and venomous intent. Then there was her grandson, Mr. Gallant, whom Oya found one of the better of the survivors. Dinah Steven she found to be one of the quiet ones, yes she took part in the conversation but whatever she truly thought never came through. There was something about her, a shadow that lingered, one none of the others had. Oya couldn’t help but think that she was a woman that’d do anything to survive, to get ahead in life. Quite opposite to his mother, Andre Stevens and his boyfriend, were weak and dramatic, neither of them carried the shadow, the promise of teeth and claws.

And then there was Coco. Never before had Oya met anyone as shallow and superficial as her, which was the reason she sometimes bit her tongue to get along with the woman. No one could possibly be as fake in personality as her, which only made Oya feel a sense of… forgery. And in turn, there was Mallory, the quiet little mouse that followed Coco around and did everything she was told. The grey was so tiny, both physically and in personality, easily overshadowed by Coco’s sense of self. Because of that and her status as a grey, the group that was overlooked and lingered in the shadows, Oya used her as an opportunity to keep her ear to the floor so to speak. If anything were to happen in the outpost a grey would know about it. Mallory was a sweet girl who wanted nothing but acceptance and kindness in return. So Oya gave her that.

The person Michael had told would protect her, was still in the unknown and the treats were many. There were days where it felt like the whole place could collapse into insanity, the human psyche was not meant to be trapped like this day in and day out, with no stimulus and no new impressions. Once she saw Stu cry over the song that played over and over again.

And then there was Mrs. Venable. The cold shadow, the now familiar click of her cane sending shivers down one's back and striking fear into hearts. There was no other word to describe her than cold. And along with her were Mrs. Mead, the loyal guard dog.

If Oya hadn't promised Michael not to kill any of them, they’d all be dead. Even the newest arrivals, Timothy and Emily, bleak as they were. That day two greys had been executed for their indiscretions. The two newcomers were teenagers said to have the perfect DNA and as soon as Oya heard that she wanted to throw a book at Michaels' head. Perfect DNA? Ridiculous. They were normal hormonal teens bound to fall in love when trapped with the most horrid people left on earth.

Of course, marking their arrival the tension had grown within the outpost and during dinner it simmered over with Coco standing up and demanding answers, demanding better treatment for the 100 of millions that had gotten her in here. Like clockwork, Mrs. Venable rained down on it, hard. Stu was the price for disturbance, the price for the growing tension. Killed with the excuse of radiation and by doing so Venable maintained power.

Oya had a hunch it would happen but she never imagined being feed Stu on a silver platter, literally. Even if Mrs. Venable denied that it was an act of cannibalism, the suspicion of it was enough to fast that day and enough to keep the people on their knees, just as she wanted them.

When the three months had passed Oya began to feel a sense of dread and hopelessness set in. She tried to fill her day with books, finding solace in written words rather than unintelligible conversation. By that time she knew more about the others that she cared for.

When 6 months had passed anger began to set in, along with the annoying need for skinship, the ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she masturbated. Her body, mind and soul had grown accustomed to Michaels and when faced with lasting separation, it seemed too long for his company. So instead of focusing on longing, she focused on anger.

Where the fuck was he? Who the fuck was he to abandon her here with these people?... Was he hurt? Was he dead?

And if he wasn’t fucking dead he was sure to be when she got her hands on him. She’d ring him like a fucking dinner bell, wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyes popped out. Or maybe stab him, over and over and over. Poison him. Kill him with a dull spoon. When there were all the time in the world you’d think a whole lot of things.

18 months. From what she counted it was 18 months after the end of the world. That was 15 months more than what was expected. After a year she had begun to falter, to think that something had happened and she could do nothing about it. With her powers locked away and Michael in the possession of what could release them she was unable to tap into the energy. Within the prison of her body were her magic, her body within the prison of the outpost and Mrs. Venable, and all of that within the prison of radiation. To be kept from her full potential and to look eternity in the face with these people was painful to say the least.

If he came he better carry a fucking crown for her.

The day had been the same as every other day, but this time there were entertainment at dinner. Mr. Gallant boiling over with anger and hopelessness, throwing a tantrum as soon as they were told of the decision to cut back another meal. Everyone was starving and desperate.

Hiding behind a glass of water, Oya allowed herself a tiny smile at the entertainment. If she were honest she’d pay to see Gallant shove a fork into Dinah for her endless positivity blabber. She’d pay even more if he were to do it to his grandmother. Gallant was in an uprise, ready to rebel against the dictators and create a revolution, all he really needed was the rest of them on his side. It could happen. It was a possibility.

But this revolution they had seen happen all too many times. And the fires were to be extinguished or else it might just actually change things.

“What is the point of all of this? Starving? Killing each other? Getting shot?!” Coco exclaimed over the others. Her nose flared, breath quickened in anger. “-All we’re doing is waiting around finding out how we die.”

“I say we take out chances outside,” Mallory commented with strange confidence, breaking the trusted mouse position she was always in. It happened every once in a while, that something broke through the insecure mask of hers. While Coco was extravagant and dramatic, it felt as though Mallory was created to be overshadowed by her. While Coco was hostile, Mallory was docile. But sometimes she wasn't.

“She’s right!” Gallant agreed loudly, his voice rising into a yell. Oya put down her cup of water and nibbled at the half a square jelly on her plate. The sight of it managed to make her sad. Maybe a revolution was really what was best for them. No one was coming after all and Mrs. Venable grasped the reigns of power all too tightly.

“We have to get out of here,” He continued.

“Nobody is going anywhere,” Mrs. Mead spoke in a cold and controlled tone. This seemed to be Gallants last straw, the passiveness becoming too much. He threw his plate to the floor in anger, shattering it into pieces that scattered across the tiles.

“What are you gonna do?! Shoot me?!” He yelled loudly and restlessly, squaring up for a fight. If anything, the mountain of a woman, the one called ‘Fist’ as if it were any better, began to prepare herself for a fight, waiting for the order to rain down on the smaller man. “Huh! What are you gonna do? Shoot us all? Huh? What’re you gonna do!”

In a flash the room was cast in red light, swallowing up all colours and shadows. It wasn’t long after the alarm began, the deafening noise travelling through the halls, cast over the stones in a never-ending loop. Oya’s eyes went to Mrs. Venable who hadn’t yet masked her surprise, nor the glimpse of panic.

What this it? Did this mean that the outside had finally broken in. Everyone was aware of the death that lurked outside and wishing to enter. Had death finally arrived?

A silent confused panic spread through the room, laced with worry and fear. Oya couldn't help for join in, feeling her heart pick up speed and adrenaline spiking through her veins. She was after all human, just like the rest of them. She had asked Michael what would happen if she die, where she’d go, maybe now she’ll find out. If I die now, Michael, I swear to everything I will make your existence worse than what hell offers. She thought.

“Perimeter alert, there’s been a breach,” Fist spoke over the alarm. Mrs. Mead quickly followed Fist while the other survivors were sent to our rooms for the time being. Oya followed Timothy and Emily up, her room further down the hall to theirs. Everyone knew and if they didn’t know they suspected that they were together. Love at the end of the world.

“What do you think it is? A carrier pigeon?” Emily asked with the sprinkle of hope in her voice.

“Or death has come knocking,” Oya spoke behind her, receiving a worried glance and a sour glare from her boyfriend.

“It’s properly nothing,” Timothy said with faux hope, trying to appease his counterpart. His arm wrapped around her waist as they went up the stairs and pulled her aside as soon as they reached her door. Oya looked away when they kissed, giving them the minimal opportunity of intimacy and privacy, both which seemed long gone.

“Oya could you help me get out of this dress?” The two entered the room, one that was familiar and standard. Instead of a zipper that was usually used on the dresses, there were buttons, small fabric buttons. Oya’s fingers were nimble and quick, they wrapped around them and forced them through the hoop with ease.

“Do you really think it’s death?”

Oya looked up after having pulled the dress down the smaller girls form, letting it pool on the floor for her to step out of. If she spoke the truth or told a lie it wouldn't make a difference. In the past she might have gone with the truth, that death was out there and breathing down their necks, but after spending a year with them she had grown fond of some of them, fond in a way that they stood between her and insanity, between her and utter boredom. She was fond of them the same way she was fond of her bed, she could live without it, it wouldn’t make a huge difference, but it was nice to have. Emily, Timothy, Mallory, Dinah and Gallant were all nice to have, and sometimes Coco.

For a while, she had wondered if the knowledge of their possible deaths and Michael’s return to her, affected the way she thought of them. If the possibility of getting out of here without them stood as a roadblock to develop affections towards them further than acquaintances. Or if it was just her preferring the company of a few with actual intelligence were just how she was.

She did always prefer plants over people.

“No,” She spoke, watching Emily pick up her dress and place it on the bed while she rolled her neck. The corset looked too old on her, like a child playing dress up of a time that should have been forgotten. Oya fucking hate the Victorian gothic theme Mrs. Venable had decided on and from what she knew Emily agreed. “I don’t think it’s death. Mrs. Mead and Fist are here to protect us, they have weapons. Beside, remember last time? It was The Cooperative with its messenger pigeon and before that, it was you and Timothy.”

“You don’t think it’s people, do you?”

She felt herself falter, brows furrowing at the question and the strange pang that tugged in her chest. “No, I don’t think it’s people either.”

Oya left but only reached the end of the hall before a scream tore through the air, repelling against the stone and carrying through the outpost. Before she knew of it, Oya was running back towards Emily’s room intent to know what had caused the disturbance and more so because curiosity was one of her biggest adversaries. Not much happened in the outpost so when anything did happen she wanted front row seats.

Timothy had reached Emily before her, holding her against his firm chest, with arms wrapped around her protectively while they stumbled back onto the bed, feet up. Twisting and turning on the floor were snakes, most of them dark but a few white.They slithered across the floor in a clove. Unafraid, she walked into the room and bend down to grasp the snake that slithered along her skirt. Her grip was firm and unrelenting, no matter how much it hissed and how hard it twisted around her wrist, she would not let go.

Fist burst into the room only to take a few steps back as she discovered the snakes, followed by Mrs. Mead and her bellowing voice. “What the hell is going on in-,” her question was answered by hisses. Her eyes landed on Oya with a snake in her grip, confusion eating at her features.

“I thought everything outside was dead,” Fist said eyes raking over the snakes only for them to land on Mrs. Mead.

“God knows how deep they went after the blast,” Mrs. Mead answered taking the axe from Fist. “Maybe they came through the sewage or ventilation system.”

“If anything were to survive the blast and radiation it would have been cockroaches, not snakes,” Oya mumbled, looking at the black snake hissing at her. Its scales reflected the candlelight.

“H-how did you do that?” Emily stuttered and let out a squeal when Fist picked up a thin grey snake that came all too close for her liking. Mrs. Mead looked up at Oya interested in her answer, as she should be. It’s not every day a botanist picks up a snake as if it were nothing.

“I had a pet snake once,” Oya shrugged, sticking closer to the truth to make the lie more believable. Just like Michael had done her botany. “And every once in awhile you come across snakes when working in nature. Be careful, they’re poisonous.”

The head of the axe cut through the snake, partening its head from its body. This were to be the fate of most of them, hacked to pieces, while a few lucky ones were thrown in a pillowcase and taken somewhere else. It wasn’t until there were no snake alive or in the pillowcase before the greys were sent in to clean up.

“Pet snake?” Mrs. Mead spoke with skepticism.

“Yes.” With that Mrs. Mead and Fist walked away. Oya was left starring after them. Indeed if there were anything to survive it was cockroaches not snakes. This was equally concerning as it was interesting. Snakes had always been a symbol of cycles and rebirth as well as balance and danger, but most of all they were her symbol. Whatever they were doing there it meant something, something she was soon to find out.

They gathered around the dinner table as usual but this time snake was on the menu and even though Oya cared for snakes she wasn’t going to turn down a proper meal for the first time in ages. There were a restlessness lurking over them, hanging in the air. Of course Venable remained tightliped about what happened earlier but ensured their safety.

“I have a rule against eating things with no legs or too many legs,” Coco complained loudly sitting light a pouting child. Andre was quick to rebuke but by that time Oya had already tuned out. It was dull, the conversation, the constant nagging and going in circles. Honestly now that there were snakes here she might just up and poison all of them. She might hear what they say but it was only on the surface, instead she was going over possible ways for the snakes to have gotten in or even survived.

“So who’s in your office?” Emily asked. The air was sucked out of the room, eggshells laid out on the floor waiting to be crushed under someone's heel, this time Emily's. It caught everyone's attention including Oya’s. So it was a person.

Mrs. Venable narrowed her eyes, stare cold as ice and threatening. “I beg your pardon?”

“The alarms went off before and someone came inside,” Emily continued. How she obtained that information eluded Oya but it seemed like she wasn’t the only one hiding in the shadows and obtaining information. Venable glared through the room with her mask of superiority, grasping at the reigns of control and order. A match could light the room ablaze, the fire of change hidden behind an unlit match, one each of them were holding. But with the match came the chance of a bullet hole.

“Who else is here?” Timothy asked with a voice filled with persistence. The boy had balls, now we just had to wait and see if he got to keep them.

“All questions will be answered in due course,” Venable slickly averted, her cane tapping against the floor as it always did, sending a wave of chills down each of their spines. Tap! “Eat.”

Collectively they all removed the lit from the plates, the expected sight of snake soup turned into a literal living nightmare. The snakes that had once been bits and pieces were somehow now slithering over the dinner table followed by a corus of skittering chairs and squeals, not all coming from the women. The snake that coiled in her soup hissed and made attempt to skitter across the table but Oya caught it by the head as she had done earlier before rising from the table and stepping back. The snake wrapped around her wrist. Dead snakes don't just come back to life.

He was here, he had to be here.

Gathered in the library, everyone waited in quiet anticipation so thick you could cut it straight out of the air. Oya was placed between the loud and annoyed Coco and the failed revolutionist Gallant. Even the greys that were usually shuffling around in the shadows now stood gathered along the walls of the room, waiting for what came next. Overlooking all of this were Venable herself, of course, eyes ice and stone set in the mask of superiority.

Her fingers tickled with adrenalin, heart pumping profusely as the seconds drawed out feeling like ages. She knew, even before he ever stepped in the room, that he was there, the one she wanted to strangle for making her wait at the same time wanting to just bury her face in his chest and draw in the familiar scent of allspice. Most of all she looked forward to watching how the others would react to his presence.

The echoes of footsteps rang out, creeping along the floor of the hall and ending in the middle of the room. When his presence caught up with the sounds of his steps her heart stopped within her chest. Her mask of stone and mild indifference hiding her thoughts from the world around them.

All eyes followed him while his eyes remained on Mrs. Venable whose expression remained closed of and cold until he was standing right beside her. It was strange to see her falter, to see her mask crumble under his unwavering gaze.

Michael’s aura was predatory, dominant. It demanded respect and attention. His hair was longer, much longer, and more golden that she remembered. It was as if during the time from where he send her away he had fallen into who he was, he seemed more comfortable.

“My name is Langdon and I represent the Cooperative,” he spoke calmly with the same drawl she had missed. Hearing his voice made it all reality, she had imagined this for so fucking long and now when it happened it ignited the anger that burned within her for so long. Still she remained perfectly in place, not storming up to push in into the fire or break the glass vase on the table to cut him up with, no for he had given her a task, a role to play and she damn well were going to play it to the fullest.

“I won’t sugarcoat the situation,” he continued, passing his eyes slowly over each person. Andre looked positively starving and Michael would be the one snack in the room. It didn’t go unnoticed that every single person seemed drawn by him, some more than others. His beauty was after all one of the greatest weapons. “Humanity is on the brink of failure. My arrival here was crucial to the survival of civilised life on earth.”

The air seemed to still, become colder at his words despite the fire burning behind him. It cast an orange aura around him lighting him up in either hellfire or a halo depending on one's point of view.

“The three other compounds in Syracuse, New York, Beckley, West Virginia and San Angelo, Texas, has been overrun and destroyed.” Oya glanced at Venable who looked troubled at the information and of course she would. It have her a bitter sadisfaction to see the glimpse of panic on her face. Shivers went through the room. “We’ve had no contact from the 6 international outposts but we are assuming that they too have been eliminated.”

“What happened to the people inside?” Timothy asked suspiciously.

Michael rolled his head towards him, drawing out the tension before answering. “Massacred.”

For a moment it was as if every single person within the room had been douched in ice water, frozen at Michael’s disturbing words and the realization that it could every well be them next. Oya couldn’t blame them, his words even made her feel the shiver.

“The same fate that would befall all most all of you.”

“Almost all?” Mallory asked with raspy voice and faltered under the gaze of the others. Once more she proved herself to me more than what she presented.

“In the knowledge that this very moment might occur we build a failsafe, The Sanctuary,” Michael answered calmly.

“The Sanctuary?” Coco said not masking her skepticism.

“The Sanctuary is unique,” Michael elaborated. “It has certain security measures that will prevent overrun.”

“Excuse me, Sir, but why weren't we given them?” Mrs. Mead asked worry painting her features while Venable looked positively furious. As well as the mask of superiority fit Venable every once in a while her eyes gave her away.

“That’s classified,” Michael shut her question down with the wave of his hand that elegantly raised through the air. Movements were like a cat or a trained ballerina, it was elegant and polished. “All that matters is that The Sanctuary will survive so that the people populating it will survive so humanity will survive.” He made it seem so normal and that was possibly what disturbed the others so much, how he seemed almost indifferent to annihilation.

“Who are the people who are populating it?” Now it was Andre’s turn to ask a question, his eyes no longer eating Michael up now that the realisation of the severity of the situation had come.

“Also classified,” Michael answered with annoyance. “However, I’ve been sent to determine if any of you are worthy and fit to join us.”

Hope bloomed like a flower and spread like wildfire. It rippled through the room transformed into small whispers. Like birds they chippered and Oya participated in the role she had created for herself.

“The Cooperative has developed a particular and rigorous questioning teknike we like to call -cooroperating. I will then use the information gained to determine if you belong.” His eyes traveled through the room drinking in every expression. Every one of them but hers. Not once had he looked at her and it only made the fire within her chest burn more wild. It was irrational of her, she knew his plan, she knew her part, but after being deprived for so long irrationality became rational.

“What is this, the hunger games?” Coco began, her voice sounding like nails on a blackboard. Oya breathed out and leaned back, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Coco was shallow, superficial and downright childish. Somehow her ego was bigger than her dead father's bankbook. “This is bullshit!”

Michael lifted his eyebrows and glared at her with utter indifference while she continued her tantrum. “I paid my way in here and that is the only cooperating I plan on doing.”

“You don’t have to sit for questioning,” Michael simply answered with a nonchalant like none other. He couldn’t care less, she could drop dead right in front of him and he’d simply walk over her body on the way out.

“What happens if we don’t?” Andre braved to question.

“Then you stay here and die.” Nonchalance turned to annoyance once more. It was made obvious that if they wanted to survive they didn’t have a choice. He could walk out of here with all of them or none of them and from what he must think by now, the former were the prefered choice.

With minimal hesitation Gallant almost exclaimed, “I volunteer to go first.” And efficiently beat everyone to the punch. The bleached blond looked wide eyed at Michael.

“And so you shall.” The air in the room had become tense again, if it had ever chanced. The usual tension had been swallowed up by impending doom sprinkled with bits of hope. Oya dried her sweaty palms on the purple fabric and swallowed, annoyed with every single person in the room, most of them for falling into what Coco had once taught her ‘a thirst trap’, what she herself would have called desire for someone who stood as a gatekeeper between life and death. She was annoyed at their simplicity, human stupidity, but most of all for feeling it herself. “Process should only take me a couple of days, so…-you won't be kept in suspense forever.”

It happened then, their eyes met and she felt electricity shoot through her. It was but a moment, a leaf in the wind, but it made her feel all the more solid and less invisible. It was a simple acknowledgement that she was here and not a specter trapped in hell with these people. These people, she was part of them for now she realised and that was the reason why he had glanced her, just like he had done everyone else.

She got one look and no more.

Bastard.

“For those of you who don’t make the cut,” Michael spoke with ease, shaking his head slightly. “All is not lost.” Slowly he pulled a vile from within his sleeve. “If it were to happen that feral cannibals were to come knocking…” Now the vile filled with tiny little white capsules were on full display. She recognizes them as one of her own product, made to kill without pain, they were always good to have, pop it into someones wine or food and they’d drop dead. Did he ransack her medicine box?

A hint of a smirk formed on his face, smug in the face of death. “Down one of these. One minute later you fall asleep and never wake up.” Now that the severity of the situation had fully formed in their minds, the hint became but a memory when the smirk fully bloomed on his lips, eyes gleaming with power and mischief. He knew he had them right in his palm. “I look forward to meeting each and every one of you.”

With that Michael left the room, leaving them all to down in their own thoughts. Venable looked troubled, unhappy that someone had come into her territory and was now fighting to keep what power she had. She tapped her cane on the floor harshly, the anger apparent, simmering beneath calm exterior.

In silence the world began to spin again. The grey’s were sent away to whatever work they had while the purples remained. Oya rose from her seat feeling smothered by Gallant and Coco. She found her way to the other side of the room, wanting to look over the books once more as if it would magically make a new one appear.

“Pet snake?” Venable spoke with a hard tone. Oya blinked at her confused for a moment.

“Yes.” Venable didn’t spare her a glance and instead walked away, her posse of trusted guarddogs following.

“Well, smooth move asking to go first,” Coco was the first one to break the silence, turning her anger and discomfort towards Gallant who looked almost innocent. Oya picked out a book with black leather and golden trimms, skimming through the old pages. This one was written in latin.

“It’s an old actors attage, either go first or go last,” Evie commented, her voice somehow more cutting that Coco’s.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Coco bit at the much older lady and thereby stepping into the battlegrounds. Oya rolled her eyes, hidden by shadows and leather, and she knew she wasn’t the only one.

“Are you suggesting that he’s going to pass me up?” Evie broke out offended. Oya had been wrong earlier, the biggest ego within these wretched walls was Evie. Apparently there were nothing she hadn’t done, no one famous she didn’t know and everyone was subjected to listening to her endless stories of hollywood grandeur. She was a Diva with a major D and she let everyone know it. Which was what had made it hard for Oya not to concoct something to slip into her many drinks or even that ugly lipstick the hag maganged to abuse. Sometimes she had even planned how to make her death look like divine intervention or fucking suicide.

“You’re ancient!” Coco barked back, body hopping a little on the plush pillows. If Evie was ancient what was she? “He’s looking for people to repopulate the earth not fill a bingohall.”

“You know, for someone with a mental capacity of a 3 year old I suppose 52 might seem ancient.” At this Oya couldn’t help but snort, trying to keep her laugh hidden. From the look of it they all heard, most of them agreeing with her sentiment. 52? 52?!

“You were 52 when Elvis took his last shit,” Coco snickered. Apparently this became too much for Gallant as he breathed out, “That’s enough.”

“No no, dear, let her spout. I remember…” Evie began her tale and Oya immediately shot her out. Coco and Oya made eye contact and there were a brief moment of understanding, acknowledgement of the others pain where both of them rolled their eyes at the hag continuing her story.

She put the book back and left the room, wanting to remove herself from the hassle of other humans. The halls were quiet, lit dimly by the candles that cast an orange glow on everything while managing to make every shadow darker and more sinister. She rolled her neck, trying to work out the tension that had build up there, while trying to calm the fire that burned within her. If she had run into Michael right then and there, she’d have dragged him by the hair to the staircase and pushed him over. Or that was what she would like to think happen, reality would most likely be much different.

It was strange being angry to the very bone, the fire burning through her chest and into her bloodstream, but also relieved. He as here, it was finally happening, but he was here and it was finally happening. The feelings were two very distinct ones, a mix of happiness and hatred, relief and disdain. The thought of being in a room with him brought a thrill tearing through her soul, but it also made it clear how abandoned she really felt.

Anything could happen during their impending interview. Only time would tell which feeling would win the battle.

#michael langdon #michael langdon fic #michael langdon imagine #obsidian & angelite

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the-affectiveturn · 3 years

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Affect theory is a nonlinear general description of material interactions, an attempt at more objectively describing the energies that are transmitted between individuals, objects and events, regardless of the binary process of labeling and categorization i.e. ‘living/non-living’, etc. The contingency of affective states seems to both actively inscribe and re-inscribe subjectivity onto individuals which subsequently shapes how they perceive their somatic responses or body-based feelings. In other words, it is the source for what the mind then translates into emotionally descriptive content, causal relations, broadly defined historical trends and forces, cultural mores from orthodoxy to taboo. As a result, affect can encompass all the processes within and without, not only the human body and mind, but all exchanges of energy that we experience as: political movements, religious ecstasy, economic transactions, chemical intoxication, the rally, the rave, the evocative sermon or a hit song. Our circumstances and perspectives are all products of feedback loops, internal narratives that made external through social relations and material conditions. We are not consciously striving for some desired end state but are possessed by desire itself, a node in a series of chain reactions, a cascade of forces that are beyond mere categorization we are a part of these processes regardless of teleology.

This paper aligns with William James’ theory of affect, according to Gregg and Seigworth, James’ notion of affect occurs in the following sequence: “(a) I perceive a lion; (b) my body trembles; ( c) I am afraid. In other words, the body perceives itself perceiving the trigger of emotion, which sets off movement (trembling), and then gets named as a cognitive state (fear)” (Gregg and Seigworth 2010, 77) It exists a priori to feelings, thought, action, movement, etc. and is always in flux/progress. As Professor Pasqua pointed out in the lecture on experience, William James understood religious experience to be “something temporary, that can’t be put into words, […] and it is passive in the sense that something external is enacted upon them” (Lecture 2020 Pasqua, Harris). For James experience is inherently subjective, however, when an individual labels or cloaks their experience with the religiosity of dogma and ritual only then does it become a religious practice.

A prominent scholar who has made significant contributions to the area of affect theory is Sara Ahmed, a self-defined “feminist killjoy.” Someone who raises their voice to call attention to uncomfortable truths about racism, misogyny and inequality to challenge the status quo and encourage others to question their privilege. Achieving her doctorate at the Centre for Critical and Cultural Theory at Cardiff University, (opting to resign from her position as professor of race and cultural studies at Goldsmiths, University of London as a protest against alleged sexual harassment by staff against students and is currently an independent researcher). Her most important works include “The Promise of Happiness” and “The Cultural Politics of Emotion” with their focus on her expansion of affect, feminist and queer theory in alignment with critical race theory. In Sara Ahmed’s “The Promise of Happiness,” she explains, “affect aliens are those who are alienated by virtue of how they are affected by the world or how they affect others in the world” (Ahmed 2014, 164.) This is exemplified in one of Hillary Clinton’s speeches during her run for presidency in 2016 when she described half of Trump supporters as “deplorables” (Reilly 2016.) Clinton is a socially and regionally insulated political elite, who, here, ignores the suffering of a large demographic of white working-class Americans who have seen their fortunes decline for decades since the onset of neoliberal capitalism. She embodies an ideal of an American that they know they cannot trust or even aspire to be, an “American Dream” that they’ve been locked out of, without the access to power, education and resources to rescue them from despair. Instead, they channel the emotions of anger and revenge against these “globalist elites” as a method to articulate their love for their fellow abject countrymen and rage against their misfortunes in the de-industrialized “rust-belts” abandoned by capital for overseas investment, along with those in “fly-over country” dominated by corporate agricultural monopolies.

Leaning this against Ahmed’s case study in a “Cultural Politics of Emotion,” involving the Aryan Nation as seen through an intersectional framework, one may consider their white privilege, but they have been disenfranchised by their class status as they have no ability to integrate their position into financial or political power. Instead, these outsiders express and seek to challenge their impotence by coalescing into a racial supremacy group to feel protected and dignified. This can be leaned against the more recent demagoguery of Donald Trump and QAnon who provides a unified energy to people who feel left behind. The Aryan Nation’s ideological narrative is the classic fascistic reactionary model of a pure racial body infected by a devious interloper, i.e., the figure of the Jew, a monolithic entity that deliberately seeks to undermine them and is fundamentally manipulative, granting their organization moral legitimacy by challenging this imagined enemy, feeding their grandiosity and providing a cause to unify against.

Looking at affect theory in a different light from James, The Immanent Frame contributor, Jessica Johnson refers to Brian Massumi’s remarks about the power of laughter and anger to “interrupt a situation”, they represent a nervous energy that can neutralize or defy the signs and signifiers of what has been established as the ordinary procession of cultural events, especially regarding power relations (Johnson 2020.) Again, looking to recent actions associated with this particular demographic, Donald Trump’s ability to channel anger along with his use of humor, with a talent for mockery of the ordinary procession of what passes for political discourse provided comic relief for those who experience a similar feeling of disdain.

Moreover, Robert Sharf admits that there exists “residue in all conscious experience” (Sharf 1998, 97.) This means, we must recognize our biases that have been formulated through socio-political, economic and cultural narratives that create “baggage” that is carried throughout one’s life much like historical weight. It is similar to what Ahmed discusses when she states, “This is what I would call the rippling effect of emotions; they move sideways (through “sticky” associations between signs, figures, and objects) as well as backward (repression always leaves its trace in the present—hence “what sticks” is also bound up with the “absent presence” of historicity)” (Ahmed 2014, 120) Affective economies are paralleled by and interact with material relations as well are structured through narratives, the mythology of nationalism or “a fantasy” that it is the white subject who “built this land” (Ahmed 2014, 118) fuels racial purity and frames the world in a reactionary tribalism where they seek power, other racial groups in the host nation are described in a manner that characteristically undermines them. Ahmed refers to the “discourse of pain” where the logics of white supremacy channel into hegemonic narratives that seek to uphold power in an affective economy where the concept of whiteness is normalized and aggrandized while all their “bad feelings” of inadequacy are projected on racialized groups, which helps cement the bond between white nationalists from the logic of white supremacy and their fear of erasure. These logics are upheld by the affective economy of fear, bad feelings as well as the connections they feel within their in-group, in response they manifest a call to form a political organization where they could imagine power and be free from the corruption of the world. It is a kind of cult that seeks purity that cannot be found in our society, they seek a world where they protected by their national status against “globalist” competition and are provided with opportune conditions to minimize the deleterious effects capitalist competition has on local communities.

Sara Ahmed's depiction of affective economies speaks to the way fear and insecurity travels through culture via feelings which spread white supremacist anxieties as cultural contagion. Misconstruing who the enemy is due to the “stickiness” of oppressive logics. Trump matches their disdain, inciting an emotional connection, he speaks to the disposed white working class, thus stirring the affective reactions of those subjects who are marked as “white,” finds subjective power in pitting oneself against the notion of the other. “Together we hate, and this hate is what makes us together” (Ahmed 2014, 118.) They are united by the feeling of being either left out of the “liberal elite” media bubble and disdain for the professional media class that does not sympathize with the erasure of their bonds to their ideas of nationhood and their place in it. So individuals are encountered with various ideological structures and then they find associations they find that the thing that they identify with and the myth that that they have based their lives around is somehow impossible or has been taken from them. “Hate is economic” (Ahmed 2014, 119) the abject “patriots”, settler-colonial subjects who accept the mythos of the frontiersmen who lives off the expanse of the freedom of the West has been made to feel the contraction of that freedom due to the extractive nature of the market and their dislocation from the elite who decide where to invest and who matters in the national discourse dominated by these distant elites who share none of the same cultural assumptions, so that the enmity is natural but then takes on a mythical status through ideological conspiratorial projection that essentializes the other and gives narrative to the disconnect between these insider/outsiders.

To conclude, affect theory can help us to be more objective when critically approaching religion, cults and right-wing conspiracy culture. By viewing these phenomena as investments of energy for those involved, we can be more sympathetic and objective when discussing these movements that would otherwise typically just garner disgust and further alienate us from our fellow citizens, to help counteract division and encourage empathy.

Works Cited

“Affective Economies.” The Cultural Politics of Emotion, by Sara Ahmed, Routledge, 2014.

Gregg, Melissa, and Gregory J. Seigworth. The Affect Theory Reader. Duke University Press, 2011.

Pasqua, Christina, and Jennifer Harris. Experience. Experience, 6 Oct. 2020, Toronto, University of Toronto.

Reilly, Katie. “Hillary Clinton Transcript: 'Basket of Deplorables' Comment.” Time, Time, 10 Sept. 2016, time.com/4486502/hillary-clinton-basket-of-deplorables-transcript/.

Sharf, Robert. “Experience.” In Critical Terms for Religious Studies, edited by Mark C. Taylor, 94-116. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1998.

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marymosley · 4 years

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Berkeley Condemns Letter On BLM From “Anonymous History Professor” Calling For Academic Freedom

Berkeley is up in arms this week because of a letter sent by someone claiming to be an anonymous professor of history at U.C. Berkeley. The writer, who identifies as a person of color, objects to a loss of free speech and academic freedom in the school adopting an institutional position on Black Lives Matter. The writer objects to the silencing of academics who do not support BLM for reasons entirely separate from the protection of black lives. I was sent this letter when it started to be circulated and I did not discuss it because I have no idea if this is an actual member of the Berkeley faculty though Kentucky State University Assistant Professor of Political Science Wilfred Reilley has recently vouched for the identity. However, it is the response of the Berkeley faculty that I believe is notable and concerning. The faculty denounced the letter and said that there is “no evidence” that such a person teaches on the faculty. Indeed, it is becoming increasingly impossible for any academic to oppose BLM or the protests. However, what concerns me is that Berkeley’s response notably does not even bother to state the pretense of tolerance for opposing views.

I actually do not agree with portions of the letter but my view of the merits is immaterial. Rather, as is often the case on this blog, I am more concerned with the implications for free speech and academic freedom in the response of the Berkeley faculty. I have included both the letter and the response in full so readers can reach their own conclusions.

Here is the response of Berkeley to a letter complaining that an alleged member of the faculty feels that there is no ability to disagree on the issue of BLM. The condemnation expresses confirms that view:

UC Berkeley History@UCBHistory

An anonymous letter has been circulating, purportedly written by a @UCBHistory professor. We have no evidence that this letter was written by a History faculty member. We condemn this letter: it goes against our values as a department and our commitment to equity and inclusion.1919:02 PM – Jun 12, 2020Twitter Ads info and privacy1,319 people are talking about this

First, it is increasingly rare for any conservative or libertarian to be hired on a faculty, particularly a highly ranking school like Berkeley. Many of us have complained for years that there is a rising and open intolerance for conservative or libertarian voices on faculties. In my thirty years of teaching, I have never seen the level of open intolerance for opposing views on faculties as I have seen in the last few years. I have spoken with young law professors across the country who say that they feel that they cannot speak openly to colleagues about such issues because they fear they will be fired or punished by their liberal colleagues. Indeed, many faculty are now quite clear in forcing colleagues either support or stay silent on such issues. This pattern did not start with the recent protests but there is now an open effort to force professors to either adopt an orthodoxy on such issues or to remain silent. If they do not, they are threatened with harassment and termination. It used to be that such measures came from students. These measures now come from the faculty itself.

Second, this response seems to struggle to confirm the hostility for any opposing view. Rather than even noting its commitment to academic freedom, the faculty condemns the views stated in the letter. I have no problem with the school stating that it does not know if the letter is legitimately from a member of the faculty. However, as an institution, I have always maintained that schools should not take positions on the merits of such controversies even when the vast majority of the faculty may support one view. Professors are always free to sign a letter denouncing the views within such a letter. This alleged faculty member was not speaking for the faculty and it is unclear why the faculty should speak as an institution as opposed to individuals. I would feel the same way if the merits or points of the letter were reversed. I respect the passion of faculty in fighting for these causes and indeed I support many of these views. I also believe that faculty members should be actively involved in this transformative debate. However, the academic institutions themselves should remain firm on protecting pluralism and tolerance of opposing views.

Here is the letter that started the controversy:

Dear profs X, Y, Z

I am one of your colleagues at the University of California, Berkeley. I have met you both personally but do not know you closely, and am contacting you anonymously, with apologies. I am worried that writing this email publicly might lead to me losing my job, and likely all future jobs in my field.

In your recent departmental emails you mentioned our pledge to diversity, but I am increasingly alarmed by the absence of diversity of opinion on the topic of the recent protests and our community response to them.

In the extended links and resources you provided, I could not find a single instance of substantial counter-argument or alternative narrative to explain the under-representation of black individuals in academia or their over-representation in the criminal justice system. The explanation provided in your documentation, to the near exclusion of all others, is univariate: the problems of the black community are caused by whites, or, when whites are not physically present, by the infiltration of white supremacy and white systemic racism into American brains, souls, and institutions.

Many cogent objections to this thesis have been raised by sober voices, including from within the black community itself, such as Thomas Sowell and Wilfred Reilly. These people are not racists or ‘Uncle Toms’. They are intelligent scholars who reject a narrative that strips black people of agency and systematically externalizes the problems of the black community onto outsiders. Their view is entirely absent from the departmental and UCB-wide communiques.

The claim that the difficulties that the black community faces are entirely causally explained by exogenous factors in the form of white systemic racism, white supremacy, and other forms of white discrimination remains a problematic hypothesis that should be vigorously challenged by historians. Instead, it is being treated as an axiomatic and actionable truth without serious consideration of its profound flaws, or its worrying implication of total black impotence. This hypothesis is transforming our institution and our culture, without any space for dissent outside of a tightly policed, narrow discourse.

A counternarrative exists. If you have time, please consider examining some of the documents I attach at the end of this email. Overwhelmingly, the reasoning provided by BLM and allies is either primarily anecdotal (as in the case with the bulk of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ undeniably moving article) or it is transparently motivated. As an example of the latter problem, consider the proportion of black incarcerated Americans. This proportion is often used to characterize the criminal justice system as anti-black. However, if we use the precise same methodology, we would have to conclude that the criminal justice system is even more anti-male than it is anti-black.

Would we characterize criminal justice as a systemically misandrist conspiracy against innocent American men? I hope you see that this type of reasoning is flawed, and requires a significant suspension of our rational faculties. Black people are not incarcerated at higher rates than their involvement in violent crime would predict. This fact has been demonstrated multiple times across multiple jurisdictions in multiple countries.

And yet, I see my department uncritically reproducing a narrative that diminishes black agency in favor of a white-centric explanation that appeals to the department’s apparent desire to shoulder the ‘white man’s burden’ and to promote a narrative of white guilt.

If we claim that the criminal justice system is white-supremacist, why is it that Asian Americans, Indian Americans, and Nigerian Americans are incarcerated at vastly lower rates than white Americans? This is a funny sort of white supremacy. Even Jewish Americans are incarcerated less than gentile whites. I think it’s fair to say that your average white supremacist disapproves of Jews. And yet, these alleged white supremacists incarcerate gentiles at vastly higher rates than Jews. None of this is addressed in your literature. None of this is explained, beyond hand-waving and ad hominems. “Those are racist dogwhistles”. “The model minority myth is white supremacist”. “Only fascists talk about black-on-black crime”, ad nauseam.

These types of statements do not amount to counterarguments: they are simply arbitrary offensive classifications, intended to silence and oppress discourse. Any serious historian will recognize these for the silencing orthodoxy tactics they are, common to suppressive regimes, doctrines, and religions throughout time and space. They are intended to crush real diversity and permanently exile the culture of robust criticism from our department.

Increasingly, we are being called upon to comply and subscribe to BLM’s problematic view of history, and the department is being presented as unified on the matter. In particular, ethnic minorities are being aggressively marshaled into a single position. Any apparent unity is surely a function of the fact that dissent could almost certainly lead to expulsion or cancellation for those of us in a precarious position, which is no small number.

I personally don’t dare speak out against the BLM narrative, and with this barrage of alleged unity being mass-produced by the administration, tenured professoriat, the UC administration, corporate America, and the media, the punishment for dissent is a clear danger at a time of widespread economic vulnerability. I am certain that if my name were attached to this email, I would lose my job and all future jobs, even though I believe in and can justify every word I type.

The vast majority of violence visited on the black community is committed by black people. There are virtually no marches for these invisible victims, no public silences, no heartfelt letters from the UC regents, deans, and departmental heads. The message is clear: Black lives only matter when whites take them. Black violence is expected and insoluble, while white violence requires explanation and demands solution. Please look into your hearts and see how monstrously bigoted this formulation truly is.

No discussion is permitted for nonblack victims of black violence, who proportionally outnumber black victims of nonblack violence. This is especially bitter in the Bay Area, where Asian victimization by black assailants has reached epidemic proportions, to the point that the SF police chief has advised Asians to stop hanging good-luck charms on their doors, as this attracts the attention of (overwhelmingly black) home invaders. Home invaders like George Floyd. For this actual, lived, physically experienced reality of violence in the USA, there are no marches, no tearful emails from departmental heads, no support from McDonald’s and Wal-Mart. For the History department, our silence is not a mere abrogation of our duty to shed light on the truth: it is a rejection of it.

The claim that black intraracial violence is the product of redlining, slavery, and other injustices is a largely historical claim. It is for historians, therefore, to explain why Japanese internment or the massacre of European Jewry hasn’t led to equivalent rates of dysfunction and low SES performance among Japanese and Jewish Americans respectively. Arab Americans have been viciously demonized since 9/11, as have Chinese Americans more recently. However, both groups outperform white Americans on nearly all SES indices – as do Nigerian Americans, who incidentally have black skin. It is for historians to point out and discuss these anomalies. However, no real discussion is possible in the current climate at our department. The explanation is provided to us, disagreement with it is racist, and the job of historians is to further explore additional ways in which the explanation is additionally correct. This is a mockery of the historical profession.

Most troublingly, our department appears to have been entirely captured by the interests of the Democratic National Convention, and the Democratic Party more broadly. To explain what I mean, consider what happens if you choose to donate to Black Lives Matter, an organization UCB History has explicitly promoted in its recent mailers. All donations to the official BLM website are immediately redirected to ActBlue Charities, an organization primarily concerned with bankrolling election campaigns for Democrat candidates. Donating to BLM today is to indirectly donate to Joe Biden’s 2020 campaign. This is grotesque given the fact that the American cities with the worst rates of black-on-black violence and police-on-black violence are overwhelmingly Democrat-run. Minneapolis itself has been entirely in the hands of Democrats for over five decades; the ‘systemic racism’ there was built by successive Democrat administrations.

The patronizing and condescending attitudes of Democrat leaders towards the black community, exemplified by nearly every Biden statement on the black race, all but guarantee a perpetual state of misery, resentment, poverty, and the attendant grievance politics which are simultaneously annihilating American political discourse and black lives. And yet, donating to BLM is bankrolling the election campaigns of men like Mayor Frey, who saw their cities devolve into violence. This is a grotesque capture of a good-faith movement for necessary police reform, and of our department, by a political party. Even worse, there are virtually no avenues for dissent in academic circles. I refuse to serve the Party, and so should you.

The total alliance of major corporations involved in human exploitation with BLM should be a warning flag to us, and yet this damning evidence goes unnoticed, purposefully ignored, or perversely celebrated. We are the useful idiots of the wealthiest classes, carrying water for Jeff Bezos and other actual, real, modern-day slavers. Starbucks, an organisation using literal black slaves in its coffee plantation suppliers, is in favor of BLM. Sony, an organisation using cobalt mined by yet more literal black slaves, many of whom are children, is in favor of BLM. And so, apparently, are we. The absence of counter-narrative enables this obscenity. Fiat lux, indeed.

There also exists a large constituency of what can only be called ‘race hustlers’: hucksters of all colors who benefit from stoking the fires of racial conflict to secure administrative jobs, charity management positions, academic jobs and advancement, or personal political entrepreneurship.

Given the direction our history department appears to be taking far from any commitment to truth, we can regard ourselves as a formative training institution for this brand of snake-oil salespeople. Their activities are corrosive, demolishing any hope at harmonious racial coexistence in our nation and colonizing our political and institutional life. Many of their voices are unironically segregationist.

MLK would likely be called an Uncle Tom if he spoke on our campus today. We are training leaders who intend, explicitly, to destroy one of the only truly successful ethnically diverse societies in modern history. As the PRC, an ethnonationalist and aggressively racially chauvinist national polity with null immigration and no concept of jus solis increasingly presents itself as the global political alternative to the US, I ask you: Is this wise? Are we really doing the right thing?

As a final point, our university and department has made multiple statements celebrating and eulogizing George Floyd. Floyd was a multiple felon who once held a pregnant black woman at gunpoint. He broke into her home with a gang of men and pointed a gun at her pregnant stomach. He terrorized the women in his community. He sired and abandoned multiple children, playing no part in their support or upbringing, failing one of the most basic tests of decency for a human being. He was a drug-addict and sometime drug-dealer, a swindler who preyed upon his honest and hard-working neighbors.

And yet, the regents of UC and the historians of the UCB History department are celebrating this violent criminal, elevating his name to virtual sainthood. A man who hurt women. A man who hurt black women. With the full collaboration of the UCB history department, corporate America, most mainstream media outlets, and some of the wealthiest and most privileged opinion-shaping elites of the USA, he has become a culture hero, buried in a golden casket, his (recognized) family showered with gifts and praise. Americans are being socially pressured into kneeling for this violent, abusive misogynist. A generation of black men are being coerced into identifying with George Floyd, the absolute worst specimen of our race and species.

I’m ashamed of my department. I would say that I’m ashamed of both of you, but perhaps you agree with me, and are simply afraid, as I am, of the backlash of speaking the truth. It’s hard to know what kneeling means, when you have to kneel to keep your job.

It shouldn’t affect the strength of my argument above, but for the record, I write as a person of color. My family have been personally victimized by men like Floyd. We are aware of the condescending depredations of the Democrat party against our race. The humiliating assumption that we are too stupid to do STEM, that we need special help and lower requirements to get ahead in life, is richly familiar to us. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to deal with open fascists, who at least would be straightforward in calling me a subhuman, and who are unlikely to share my race.

The ever-present soft bigotry of low expectations and the permanent claim that the solutions to the plight of my people rest exclusively on the goodwill of whites rather than on our own hard work is psychologically devastating. No other group in America is systematically demoralized in this way by its alleged allies. A whole generation of black children are being taught that only by begging and weeping and screaming will they get handouts from guilt-ridden whites.

No message will more surely devastate their futures, especially if whites run out of guilt, or indeed if America runs out of whites. If this had been done to Japanese Americans, or Jewish Americans, or Chinese Americans, then Chinatown and Japantown would surely be no different to the roughest parts of Baltimore and East St. Louis today. The History department of UCB is now an integral institutional promulgator of a destructive and denigrating fallacy about the black race.

I hope you appreciate the frustration behind this message. I do not support BLM. I do not support the Democrat grievance agenda and the Party’s uncontested capture of our department. I do not support the Party co-opting my race, as Biden recently did in his disturbing interview, claiming that voting Democrat and being black are isomorphic. I condemn the manner of George Floyd’s death and join you in calling for greater police accountability and police reform. However, I will not pretend that George Floyd was anything other than a violent misogynist, a brutal man who met a predictably brutal end.

I also want to protect the practice of history. Cleo is no grovelling handmaiden to politicians and corporations. Like us, she is free.

Berkeley Condemns Letter On BLM From “Anonymous History Professor” Calling For Academic Freedom published first on https://immigrationlawyerto.tumblr.com/

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annahornby · 7 years

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“Why does this keep happening?”

In the wake of another cowardly and violent terror attack in my beloved London, I’ve been reading first hand accounts of friends who had been at the scene and thinking of the victims, like the girl who - like a rabbit in headlights - stood and stared at the knifemen, only to be knifed down seconds later as the three descended on her.

My thoughts quickly turned to politics.

We see the election looming near and I have never felt so strongly about the need to make a change; how important our choices are in this time.

Fear is rooting so many people to the spot, like the tragedy of the yet to be named girl.

Fear is an incredibly dangerous thing. It can make us make bad, knee jerk choices or even none at all.

This forthcoming election means we need to make considered choices and not give in to fear.

I see fear every day. People are afraid to travel; afraid of people with different coloured skin; afraid of people wearing a hijab. In my day to day life I have personally witnessed this distrust and fear.

To quote Yoda because at this point I’m looking for something deeper… “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”

Fear can be useful and can keep us safe. It helped our ancestors survive. But a fear born from ignorance or one unchecked can lead to dangerous reactions. This reactive fear is something that is breeding, multiplying in our society,

We no longer have the depth of community that we once had in Britain. Many people attribute this to the number of immigrants in the country, but the same finger could be better pointed to many other reasons. Perhaps the cost of living; people having to move away from where they grew up because they can no longer afford to live there.

No longer knowing their neighbours, living anonymous lives in places that they do not have the roots of community.

In a time of extremism, it is easier to point a finger than look inward. I find myself looking at a culture baying for more blood, for hard-nosed answers to difficult questions.

“Throw more money into nuclear weapons.”

“Sell arms to help our economy so we can protect ourselves.”

“Bring in more surveillance”.

“Throw people in jail and lock away the key”.

“Hang them.”

“Bomb them”.

“Deport them.��

“Don’t let them in.”

We need to look at the reality here and not give in to fear, not alienate those who are “different”.

Because, logically none of these things have been working. After the recent attacks in England and across the world I often hear “Why do these things keep happening?” and “How can we go on like this?” from the same mouths baying for blood.

The reality is. We need a change and we need to not continue down this bloody path. That is how we stop these things happening.

We need to fight hate with love.

We need to be continue to be an open society

We need to get to know our neighbours, we need to continue to reach out olive branches, not shut out people not become more and more closed.

The Muslim community in Manchester alerted authorities to suspected Manchester Bomber Salman Abedi on a number of occasions. These warnings were overlooked. His own community and family members warned of his radicalisation and yet authorities did not take action. This is not the fault of the community who now face violence and more segregation because of their religion. This points to a wider problem.

We need to learn to separate these issues and innocent people.

In the ever rise of racism, xenophobia and Islamophobia, those who find themselves slipping into this must open their eyes and hearts.

Like Will.I.am sang, “If you only have love for your own race, then you only leave space to discriminate.”

Being a Muslim does not mean being a terrorist.

Being a terrorist does not mean being a muslim, or asian for that matter.

But alienating cultures within “our” own culture will further serve to play into the hands of those trying to spread the fear.

All the cultures that make up Britain are ours, we are them and they are us.

Living on this tiny, mixing pot island, a British Community, full of beautiful differences and cultures unified by being a part of the human race.

We must remember that hate breeds hate; we must not sink to that.

Rather than consistently looking at the effect of issues like the recent attacks in England we need to look further into cause.

Why have ISIS formed? Who is funding them and why has the home office admitted that an investigation into the foreign funding of extremist Islamist groups may never be published due to “sensitive information.”

Is our good friend Saudi Arabia (a morally bankrupt and human rights depleted country,) who the British recently sold £3.5bn of arms to funding ISIS?

Ask yourself does selling arms to countries on the human rights list serve Britain?

Does the bombing of countries which creates displaced people serve Britain?

Does privatising our biggest and best life saving Asset - the NHS- potentially leading to being charged for treatment, best serve Britain?

Does putting £4.8 billion into replacing four Trident nuclear submarines best serve Britain?

Because let’s be clear, pushing the button on these is first an illegal move defined in 1998 by the Rome Statute, which set up the international criminal court, as “a systematic attack directed against a civilian population, resulting in extermination or torture, or an inhumane act intentionally causing great suffering”.

10 times more powerful than Hiroshima, and indiscriminate of whether it hits civilian sites, like schools and hospitals it would wipe out millions of lives and leave a lasting legacy of trauma, cancer and deformities for years to come.

By the way, this would almost certainly lead to a definite return attack and leave us much the same.

Are we ok with killing?

Are we ok with creating more refugees?

More anger?

More resentment?

My thoughts on politics stretched further, as they are prone to do when so many issues are inextricably linked.

Our NHS is facing the biggest challenge in it’s history, where nurses and doctors are overstretched and costs are rising; nurses cannot afford to finish their qualifications meaning being understaffed in the future as well as now; healthcare is facing privatisation with high costs for treatment.

On Saturday night innocent people were rushed to the Accident and Emergency departments. Doctors and Nurses worked through the night to save lives. We need the NHS, of this there is no doubt.

The people who went in for care will not face bills that they can not pay in the morning.

Families of those who died will not face the phenomenal costs of air ambulances that were called out to try to rescue their loved one.

People from other countries were rushed to the hospital too. They will not be faced with these charges either, because they are here adding to our economy and on our soil and worthy of having their lived saved without checking if they can pay.

Our policeforce is stretched beyond reasonably limits, further cuts directly threaten our safety. In community policing and national security.

People are pushing to be able to survey Britian more, channelling people’s anger and confusion by rationalising we need to be watched more.

Let us remember that both two of the most rescent terrorists were known to police. Let us not confuse a direct problem with resourced with one of lack of power.

Terrorism and Extremism and the radicalisation of often angry young men and women poses so many more questions too about our wider economy.

On prisons:

Does paying £64000 a year for a person in prison serve Britain rather than working on reform programmes to teach convicts life skills and getting them into housing instead of back on the streets and potentially reoffended serve Britain?

Does hard punishment instead of reform serve us or does it serve our blood baying?

We must face that reform is the key to prevention and in the wider picture reform we must.

Not only must we reform those in prison but we must reform ourselves and the way we think, we must not self serve and worry about our tax cuts more than our safety. Reform is key to a safer society.

Look to the closing of prisons in Sweden and the Netherlands due to lack of prisoners; In the Netherlands crime rate has declined an average of 0.9% yearly. The punishment is taking away of liberty and the aim is to get people into better shape to re-enter society.

With re-offending rates at less than half of those in the UK it clearly works.

When we talk about the poor economy do we look fully at the zero hour contracts that do not guarantee a certain hours of work?

Do we look at work being illegally outsourced to prisons, taking jobs from those that need them because Prisoners are much cheaper. That legally is termed slave labour.

Prisons, where the radicalising of angry young men has been known to happen, are underfunded and being squeezed, there are not enough officers to keep inmates safe and are in danger themselves.

A breeding ground for radicalisation and being made to work as many hours as needed, punitively with no hourly wage, with no levels of real reform or ways to change their paths out of prison to me seems a dangerous combination.

Having a home and a job affect offending and reoffending. There is a causal link between education and crime. In layman terms, being homeless and not having a job makes you more likely to commit crime making society less safe.

Only a third of prisoners reported being in paid employment in the four weeks before custody. 13% reported never having had a job.

When we talk about a poor economy, we are not just discussing how many people have a home or can’t afford a meal out we are genuinely discussing life and death.

People are struggling to survive, visiting food banks and living hand to mouth.

We haven’t even touched here on mental health of the homeless and those incarcerated or the cuts to mental health benefits or disability allowances. Cut to our public services, healthcare, police.

The lists go on and on. But I have in some way tried to point to some of the reasons why these things can keep happening and how a healthy economy can work towards combatting issues such as terrorism.

Of course, we do not need to point out that bombing countries and creating refugees, then not giving them refuge can hardly help.

I don’t believe there is a “magic money tree” as Conservatives keep pointing out. Perhaps the only thing I agree with them on.

I believe there is a fully costed manifesto scrapping our death weapons and adding taxes to the highest earners that will ensure more police on the streets, more help for the poorest in our society, more nurses in our hospitals, more education, more trust within our society.

I don’t believe it’s perfect but I believe it is better than current circumstances, which only threaten to get worse.

The Conservatives have also been the biggest borrowers absolutely and on average over the past 70 years. Austerity is proven to not work, to tread further on the downtrodden.

I aspire to work hard, to get a great job with a nice house, I’d love to earn a lot of money, honestly don’t get me wrong. I do not feel that I am deterred by the taxations of businesses and the highest earners.

I think it is a responsibility to contribute to the society that has grown you. If get there I know my position will be privileged and I know I will be ok with paying more tax.

I always try to bear in mind that studies show you need £49000 a year to be happy. That’s £31000 less than the amount you have to earn to be in the 5% that will see higher tax rises.

As a floating voter I have been convinced by Jerermy Corbyn.

I don't care if he looks out of place in the suits; that he doesn’t play to the crowds or know how to court the country.

I care that he is there, fighting for the British people and not his rich establishment friends.

Consistently voting on the right side of Britain for over 20 years, fighting for our human rights, peace and actual stability - not u-turning and only offering soundbites but looking for meaningful solutions.

For the first time I feel strangely hopeful when listening to his arguments.

We need reform and we need to care for the most vulnerable in society.

We need to grow in love and look outward.

We need to give people the opportunity to grow and guide them through education.

People need homes and security.

I don’t think there is a fail safe answer to any of the questions we face but I think there is a better one than cuts, than poverty and than looking out for ourselves.

I believe when we start looking at these problems, it will have a wonderful effect on these scary wider problems. We are all better and stronger together.

That is why I will be voting to remove Conservatives from their reign of power on June 8th.

#votelabour #voteconservative #votecorbyn #labour #terrorism #prison #reform #politics #myvote

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