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#and about how the teachers in my elementary school mistreated us
somsnom · 11 months
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Annoyance aside I think my real problem with the “former gifted kid” lament isn’t that I think they have nothing to complain about. I’m sure they’ve got plenty of knives in their sides
My problem is that whenever they talk about how hard it is to be a former gifted kid it reads like they’ve never considered that people who have always struggled academically were also mistreated. Like you think that maybe the people who have been failing tests since elementary school are also berated? That none of us had a lot of pressure from teachers and parents?
Sorry that the praise got to you and now you feel empty without it. I really hope you can heal from it. But do you understand that what you’re saying come off as lacking empathy for how the rest of us were treated?
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glittertimes · 4 months
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While we’re talking about cognitive dissonance, I know that all my rage comes from being abused at home then coming to school and being shamed and sent to the principal’s office constantly. Being labeled as this entitled problem kid when I just wanted to draw in class, or had never been taught how to interact with people in a healthy way bc my house was pure chaos.
Like I always had good grades and I was so creative, I was so passionate about art and I was silly and caring and I just wanted to hang out with my friends and doodle in class.
Obviously all children and people in general deserve care and safety regardless of grades or any kind of respectability politics.
But all I was ever told was how disrespectful I was bc I was already fed up with authority figures as an elementary aged kid. That I saw the hypocrisy in being expected to respect people that had no respect for me, that I was expected to be more emotionally intelligent than grown adults with whole degrees in child development.
I understand now that that mistreatment was rooted in white supremacy, patriarchy, and the devaluation of children. It all destroyed my little nervous system and sense of self. To the point I can’t really celebrate any of my accomplishments bc there’s always that voice in the back of my head that I don’t fit here.
But all of that is also what makes it easier to choose what side I’m on in any social movement. Why side with the people who will never see my humanity, even with all the privilege and access to education I have. Why choose people who will discard me the second I disobey or criticize them?
I applied for this scholarship recently from this organization of Latinx librarians and I wrote about how I learned about mutual aid and community care from all the immigrant moms who cared for me as a kid. I don’t have any extended family in the US so my parents would rely on other immigrant families to care for us if they were busy working.
They’re the ones who supported me as a kid, not my white teachers. And at the very least my trauma teaches me to have solidarity with other people, and no faith in oppressive institutions loll.
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vergess · 1 year
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Tell us about the florist!
Oh right the racist florist.
I had to go to the DMV recently to get new ID to prove I'm a Real Human Person so I would be allowed to vote in elections in a place I've lived OVER A YEAR NOW.
So I'm stuck there with me and the GF (who has to accompany me for medical reasons) wearing our respirators and no other masks in the building, settling in for 3 hours of bureaucracy that has no right to exist.
And the woman two rows behind us is a florist.
We know this because she is at this point only speaking loudly enough to dominate the entire wait area (approximately 50 seats, half full). She has not, as of this moment in our tale begun screaming.
She will, but not yet.
She is complaining loudly about her least favourite ever customer, who appeared in her shop once an indeterminate number of weeks or months ago.
So, I'm already mostly panicking because I'm an immune compromised POC wearing a mask in a building with 30 open faced mayo sandwiches.
And I start processing the story I'm hearing.
"Yeah, I work at a garden center and some of these customers!!"
And I'm internally SO relieved because the screaming white woman (which is of course the equivalent to kill bill sirens after decades of living as their punching bag) is not a threat!!
She's just a tired, angry retail worker frustrated with her customers!! What a huge weight off my shoulders!!
"She saw one of my plants and just started screaming at me!"
At this point I'm openly sympathetic, sharing commisserating glances with the GF, nodding along about the mistreatment of retail workers.
"It's called the wandering Jew, I didn't name it."
And this is the moment my heart stopped, and I realized I needed to be VERY quiet and VERY small.
So while you're envisioning me slouching deeper into my folding chair, a pair of panicked eyes the only thing left above my coat collar, let's detour.
The genus Tradescantia, much like myself, is from rural appalachia. (Actually, it's a pan american genus, with species native from Canada to Argentina and everywhere between).
It contains a number of popular houseplants, broadly known as creeping inch or spiderwort. Some varieties with especially showy flowers are called "dayflowers" since blooms only last one sunrise to one sunset.
They're astonishingly fast growing, with a popular myth that they grow "an inch a day," though the name "creeping inch" actually refers to the leaves being about an inch apart.
The leaves are the real showstopper, though.
Check out this "Purple Heart" species, Pallida:
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Image from University of Wisconsin Madison. A dark purple mound of foliage spills out of a 10 gallon planter.
Or the truly stunning, variegated Zebrina species:
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Image by David J. Stang, CC4 BY-SA. As always because tumblr suppresses links, the CC license will be linked in the replies. A several meter wide patch of striped silver and green leaves.
There's a "tricolore" variant of the main Fluminis (no that's a FFXIV dungeon that's not right) species, where the leaves are bright green, pale almost white green, and PASTEL PINK okay. These are GORGEOUS plants that were a prominent part of my childhood.
The term "wandering Jew plant" had already been mostly retired in English by the time I started elementary school, as evidenced by the fact that we GREW THESE IN CLASS EVERY YEAR TO SELL AT THE GREENHOUSE FUNDRAISER. Occasionally a grandparent might ask to buy them at the fundraiser by the Forbidden Name, but teachers just told us they were saying "jute" and not to repeat it.
These are REALLY cool plants. I need you all to understand that.
Because I was too busy hyperventilating to actually say any of this at the time.
The breathing is about to get worse, because this is the point at which several other (white) people started chiming in to agree about how disgusting Woke Culture is.
And the the florist scared the piss out of me, as if I had any piss left.
"Yeah! It's not like she'd ever even seen a Jew! There aren't any in Maine, hahaha!!"
The folks closest to her laughed along. These were not kind laughs. This was not a joke, it was a promise delivered in laughter.
I thought I might have a heart attack. I was actively gauging whether my crippled ass could get past the crowd and to the exit.
One (1) person with a mask had arrived to the DMV at this point and clearly clocked me sitting in the corner trying not to die.
If you're the ambiguously gendered blond with the blue mask at the DMV on October 3, please understand that you prevented a major incident just by standing near the exit, making eye contact, and nodding when you realized what was standing between me and safely leaving.
You're a good fucking ally.
Thank you.
Anyway, in case you forgot, this was at the DMV so I could get ID to vote, so I needed to try and stay if I could. It's an hour trip each way to the DMV, after all.
Fortunately, a few minutes more of this monstrosity, and the racist harpy was called to the counter. She paid her outstanding taxes, and left. Because to racist freaks, that kind of behaviour is acceptable and normal in public spaces.
Eventually, the rest of her coterie were also called, and then me, and then we left and I had a sobbing meltdown in the car.
Also this was the day of the 50 page Dracula email, so I had a LOT happening there.
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eroticcannibal · 1 year
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You talking about how teachers are mistreating your child reminds me of how every time I got a call home from school it was either because I'd hurt a teacher's feelings and that shit just would not stand or I had the audacity to take matters into my own hands.
In elementary school (I think that's primary in your country? idk I was like 10) Mom got a call home cause I'd bitten another student. It took her a good 15 min to get out of them that I'd bitten them because three boys had been beating on me.
Years later at a different school in a completely different part of the country a teacher called my mother in tears because of something I said. She went on and on about how horrifically disrespectful I was. Eventually she got it out of her that I'd just said that I didn't understand the day's lesson.
A few years later at a different school in yet another part of the country she got a call home for something I arguably did do something wrong! It was yelling at the principle for using the school's budget to create a "Senior Cafe" that only the senior students could eat in instead of spending that money on.... literally anything else.
Every last one of them hated talking with her because she wouldn't just, punish me for stepping out of line and being a good little student seen not heard.
Teachers really can be pathetic huh?
I got in trouble for that kind of shit too, defending myself when bullies weren't dealt with and daring threaten a teachers ego (usually by excitedly correcting them because I love learning and I want the teachers to learn too!) Ofc they managed to pull the wool over my mothers eyes and paint me as the problem for a loooooong time. It was only when I reached the point of skiving and doing drugs and trying to kill myself that my mum was like hang on a minute something aint right here.
I've always refused to just believe a teacher with my own kid cus I know what they are like. And yknow what, despite the fact they would be having to contact me near daily, all but one time when I asked my child, it would turn out to not be their fault, and while the teachers tried to twist who held responsibility, they agreed with the facts of what happened most of the time. And honestly the entitlement of those phone calls and such. Like, what, you expect me to handle this how *you* want me to? Your gonna have a little tantrum because I dont use the naughty step in MY home? Are you paying my fucking rent? Fuck off.
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things adults thought were understandable to do/say to me as a kid that I am still mad about more than a decade later:
when teachers made us lug around a bunch of heavy books. you could feel it was bad for your body but when you tried to tell your english teacher that you guys already had to bring in your history and math textbooks the same day, they would respond with some variation of "well if you're bringing in your history textbook its not fair if you don't bring in your english textbook" okay. my spine doesn't care what the subject is actually, its just bending over from carrying three textbooks. maybe my joints are more valuable than a single day of class sans textbook
"you'll understand when you're older" when grown ups mistreated customer service workers
when I was a kid who did something wrong without understanding and was treated as if I had done it maliciously. I can't even remember what I actually did, but I'll never forget the two elementary school teachers who treated me that way
the middle school teacher who asked me what happened after I failed a quiz and when I said I was absent on the day the material was covered (and the day they said there would be a quiz), she acted like that was the most ridiculous excuse ever. it was like the 8th day of school. ironically the class was called "study skills"
I didn't fully grasp the not-okay-ness of some of these when I was a kid, but as an adult thinking back it's just wild. When a kid tells you something's wrong, how is your first instinct not to hear them out when they're so powerless without your permission. When a child does something wrong, how do you as an authority figure not take a moment to teach them but instead act as if they're an adult who should know all the things that are obvious to you.
and they thought all this was cool because I was a kid, but its adult me from the future to say, y'all did some horrible things actually!
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redleatherlesbo · 2 months
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bukola's blog #2: on citizenship
how an encounter with a neighbor convinced me of my worthiness of a high school award (tw/reference to su*cide)
when i was a teenager, the high school i attended had a monthly assembly before school where students selected by their teacher would receive the “Good Citizenship” Award. each month, a different department would give the award. in september, teachers from the english/language arts department would select a student; in march, the math department would do so, and so forth. from what i remember, the qualifications for a student who demonstrated good citizenship in a classroom context were thus: enthusiastic participation in class, timely submission of assignments, genuine inquisitiveness, willingness to help classmates, etc. by the time i graduated, i had received this award five times.
the most memorable of these five awards was the one i received from my ap world history teacher, mrs. ewans. it was during my sophomore year of high school, one of the first school years i remember more for the mental and emotional anguish i was experiencing than for anything i said or did in a class to deserve any acknowledgement. it was the first year that i was completely uninvolved in any extracurricular activities since elementary school, having chosen to disengage from a few activities wherein i felt mistreated by my peers. the years preceding my sophomore year were full of the kind of serious bullying that you would expect a dark-skinned black girl (and the only african girl in school) to experience in a southern school district.
unfortunately for me, it was in disengaging from these activities where cruelty was taking place that i had the opportunity to reflect on them for the first time. i spent every day that year going straight home after school to sink into my loneliness, wondering what i did in a past life to be given this one. having attended middle and junior high schools filled with hundreds of southern, majority white, american preteens experimenting with racism for the first time through their interactions with me, choosing to pull back was probably the better decision. but beyond the internal turmoil caused by the solitary experience of oppression, the social awkwardness of youth that we all went through made things even lonelier. i remember looking for a table to sit at on the first day of that year, lunch tray in hand, realizing i could no longer sit with the basketball girls. i remember wandering through the halls to find an alcove to sit in by myself, eventually calling my dad to share my predicament. he immediately offered to drive to school and eat lunch with me on one of the benches outside or even in the car. i wish i had accepted, but youthful embarrassment kicked in at the thought of eating lunch with my dad because i had no friends. i declined, and hung up the phone almost immediately. i settled into the library, where i would eat my lunch nearly every day for the rest of the year.
it’s a hard place to return to emotionally still, so i can’t fathom how the version of me that i was at that time managed to convince any teacher that there was anything useful—let alone praiseworthy—about me. i don’t remember being my usual bubbly self that year, or even making a single memorable contribution in any class. i spent all of high school and most of the years since thinking those citizenship awards, the one from my world history teacher especially, were undeserved.
earlier today, i was taking my dog for a walk in brooklyn before sitting down at my laptop to work from home for the day. my dog is [very cute and] on the small side, so he often wears a sweater in the wintertime to keep him warm. he was wearing it today when someone behind us complemented him. i turned to accept the compliment, and inadvertently began a conversation with a very talkative neighbor about my dog’s sweater. i had not noticed when our conversation began, but as we continued speaking and i observed the missing fingers on his gloves and the callused skin underneath, i realized i was speaking to one of the unhoused men i often see in the neighborhood. as if on cue, he shifted the topic of conversation from my dog’s sweater to the fact that he was in need of money to pay for a meal and transportation to the shelter for the day. i told him i didn’t have cash and apologized, but he continued to follow my dog and me across and down the street while suggesting places i could stop into to get cash for him. i told him i didn’t even have my card and so i couldn’t get cash at the moment—having only grabbed what i needed to take my dog out for a quick stroll around the block—thinking this would end the conversation. instead, he began to describe how bad his mental health had gotten lately. he thanked me for even talking to him and addressing him like a human being but said that he feared he might k*ll himself because it was his birthday, and he was on the street having to ask strangers for their change for a place to stay. he finally offered to stay in front of the kfc on the corner we were standing on and wait for me to take care of my dog and get cash. i agreed, and we finally parted ways.
on my way home with my dog, my brain was a mess of thoughts. i was pretty sure i didn’t even have any cash at home, so i needed to find the nearest atm. i couldn’t go far to find it because i had a meeting on zoom that would start within an hour. i was also limited in which direction to go looking for an atm because the kfc that the man was waiting for me at was so close to my apartment building. given his willingness to follow me when i was crossing the street and down the block, i thought it best not to give him any indication of where i lived. this line of thinking made me ashamed of myself, and i wondered if i would feel the need to take so many precautions after a similar conversation with a member of my community if i knew they had a permanent address. i recognized myself at the crossroads of intersectional experience, remembering i am a woman and that i smile when strangers speak to me and wondered if a man would have been followed. while trying to decide if this made me a bad person, i also began to wonder if the “i am going to k*ll myself if you don’t come back with cash” method of solicitation typically yielded him much success. it probably isn’t his birthday, is it? would i assume a housed person was lying about their birthday?
after wiping my dog’s paws and giving him a treat to occupy himself with, i headed back out to the atm, still grappling with all my thoughts. in the chaos of it all, one thought came to the forefront: i think it makes me a pretty good citizen to still go get the cash despite all of those considerations especially regarding my safety as a woman. and then, for the first time in almost a decade, i remembered that year of deep unworthiness. the certainty on mrs. ewans's face as she read the paragraph she had written about why she had selected me during that early morning awards ceremony all those years ago returned to my mind. only this time, it did not bewilder me.
i’m not fully sure why i wrote this. the rest of the encounter was mundane: i gave him the cash, we bumped elbows, and we parted ways. part of this feels embarrassingly self-congratulatory. i hope the more painful memories of my sophomore year demonstrate that any positive sentiment i express towards or about myself was hard-won. i also wonder if my experience would be relevant to educators considering the merits of rewarding students in similar ways. even though the award might even have seemed corny to me at the time (telling other students that i received this award more than once felt like asking to be labelled a Teacher’s Pet and a ‘tryhard’), in the elevator on my way down to the atm, i remember thinking that i wanted to prove mrs. ewans right. even almost ten years later, i wanted to prove worthy of my Good Citizenship awards.
more importantly though, i think the lesson in the story is that our essence always shines through. even amidst immense trauma that made me incapable of seeing any positive traits present in myself, my teacher was able to see it. for years i thought i fooled her, though i now realize it was myself i had fooled into thinking that depression would take the essence of who i am away from me. there is a light that shines in us, even when we cannot see it ourselves.
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( let's see ) 26 , 36 , 37 , 48 , 50 , 82 , 90 , and 98 .
How long has this been here?! I didn't see it until now, wow. Apologies on the delay.
Tumblr doesn't show the date an ask was sent, so I have to guess which post this corresponds to. I think it was for this question list? It's the only recent one I can find that has 98+ questions on it, anyways.
26. Have you ever been famous?
Not to my knowledge! I had a speaking part in a school choir performance once. And in middle school when I wanted to try drama club, they cast me as the lead role, but I was like "Wait, wait, no, I don't want the LEAD role." But they wouldn't give me another one, so I wound up quitting the club that same week. :P I knew the lead would require a lot more work, memorization, and time than I wanted to put into it. Not to mention, I had MASSIVE stage fright and didn't want to be performing solo in front of the audience for long.
(Choir was different because the attention wasn't on me, specifically. The speaking part was different because it was like 30 seconds and then it was over, I could practice and perfect it and then get it over with and melt back into the blur of choir-singing faces.)
Anyways, I did get a poem published in a poetry collection once (I'm still bitter that it was, of all my poems, The Raven and The Dove), and I had a picture of a pointillism raven published in a pagan magazine when I was about 16, but I've never drawn much attention to me, specifically.
36. Favorite clean word?
Maybe "ephemeral"? Could also be "susurrus" or "murmuration", maybe diaphanous. I just love the sound of all those. But for sound as well as meaning, I think my favorite word is halcyon.
37. Favorite swear word?
Are we only talking about in English, or can I grab one from Finnish? Because there's something very cathartic about screaming "PERKELE" at something that pisses you off. (It translates to something like "devil", but it's pretty multi-purpose.)
If only English counts though, probably an F-bomb. A well-placed "fuck" adds so much color to our language. I love its adaptability, too! It can be delighted or furious, sincerely emotional or just really emphatic. When someone brings out the F word, usually you know they Really Mean It.
48. Can you curl your tongue?
Yep! I can twist it upside down, fold it backwards on itself, and partially do that "flower" pattern if I use my teeth as leverage, but I can't do it with 3-5 "petals" the way other people do. Also roll my Rrrr's and touch the tip of my nose with my tongue.
50. Left or right handed?
I'm like 75% ambidextrous! SLIGHTLY more right-handed than left, but not by much. Which hand I use varies greatly on the task and how I'm posed at the moment. If it's more convenient to use my left, or if my right shoulder is aching, I'll use my left no problem. When I was learning to write in elementary school, I kept switching my hands until my teacher eventually told me to use my right hand. I never practiced with my left, so I can only write with my right hand, but when I'm using other tools there's an equal chance of me using my left hand, especially for finer details.
82. How fast can you type?
The fastest I've ever clocked my typing was 120 words per minute! (Granted, I was typing the words of an Evanescence song I know by heart. But my brother timed me. My youngest sibling witnessed it. I typed for a minute and a half, and typed 180 words. Only a handful of typos, too!)
Even with editing and proofing, the temporary staffing test thing clocked me at 85wpm.
In short: HELLA fast.
90. What makes you angry?
A few broad-stroke, general things. Cruelty, bigotry, mistreatment, nationalism, cults, capitalism, generally things that hurt or manipulate people or leverage their suffering for someone else's gain.
Also people being willfully ignorant in a way that hurts other people. Subset of that, internet trolls. Other subset, intentionally ignoring peoples' needs.
And those who don't respect your boundaries when you lay them out clearly. It's okay if you accidentally cross a line without knowing I Don't Like That, but when I TELL someone "Hey, that's not cool, don't do that", and they keep doing it, then I get irritated. Forgetting the first few times is one thing. It'll Irk^tm me but it's understandable, I won't get Angry. But if you intentionally keep doing it because you think my reaction is funny, or because you don't think it's a problem and I ~shouldn't~ be bothered, then I'll get Annoyed and that quickly coalesces into Actual Anger.
98. Do you have any scars?
I have a few, actually! All but one of them are super tiny, though. A lot of them have faded since I started taking vitamins and medication that lets me actually absorb nutrition, but here's a selection off the top of my head:
~ The big one on my left arm from falling on a broken fan grate at about 4 years old.
~ The one at the base of my left pointer finger from my uncle's rabbit biting me.
~ The one on my shoulder from the time we had a breaking decorative fence gazebo thing and I ran into a nail sticking out.
~ The tiny patch of ancient rug burn from the time I was at my then-bestfriend now-girlfriend's house and watched a Teen Titans episode and got so emotional I somehow tripped over myself and scraped the back of my right hand on the carpet.
~ Very near that one, I have a scar from the time one of our family cats fell off the back of the couch and I caught her midair, but not without her claws digging into my hand. (She was just trying to catch herself, not hurt me, don't worry! It was Belle, who I strongly suspect had some kind of neurological thing going on because she was pretty clumsy and moved differently from other cats...)
~ I have very faded but still noticably Different-Textured scars on my heels from my very FIRST cosplay, the 80's Raven one. She had heels in the comics. I had never worn heeled shoes for longer than an hour before. I think I was at that convention for four hours. I didn't know my heels were actually bleeding until I took them off, and nobody had told me to put something cushiony over them...
~ The scar on my hip from, ironically, cosplaying my character who has a scar on her hip. My father, who did special effects as a hobby, told me to use rubber cement to stick the fake scar on, and I listened to him. Please, dear gods, DO NOT USE RUBBER CEMENT on your skin! That shit BURNED going on, it stung all day, and by the time the convention was over and I had to take a shower, it had eaten through four small patches of my skin. I later learned that stuff is super caustic and it was not, in fact, just because I have sensitive skin. I'm still bewildered that he told me to do that??? Spirit gum is the obvious answer, I know that now, but I very much did Not know that back then.`
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katies-blogs-24 · 2 years
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Elementary School
I began school at a young age, entering kindergarten at four years old. Landmark is a tiny, year-round school where I attended. Each classroom has two grades and the teacher stays the same for two years. Kindergarten and first grade are grouped together, as are second and third grades, and fourth and fifth grades. Going to Landmark was one of the worst decisions of my life.
Although kindergarten and first grade were not very problematic, second and third grade was when everything took a turn for the worse.  My teacher, was someone I despised. She was cruel to me for no apparent reason. She had favorites, and I was not one of them, so she went out of her way to make my life as difficult as possible. The kids watched how that teacher treated me, and some of them began to imitate her because she was teaching them that it was acceptable to treat others this way. I began to be picked on by a large number of children. It did not take long before it started getting to my head. I felt like something was wrong with me. Nobody seemed to like me. When things were tough, I did not even have friends to turn to. The tone and disrespect with which individuals treated me made me feel so unwanted. Even though it hurt and I was at an age where I could understand when people were being cruel, I was still young enough to not be as bothered as if I was older. I continued to try to be happy and laugh in any way I could.
Everything did not really start to fall apart until fourth grade. People not only treated me with hatred and disrespect, but they also humiliated me in front of the entire class and physically mistreated me. When I was walking up and down the stairs or even in the classroom, I was shoved or tripped. People would throw balls at me during recess, and in the cold, even ice chunks. I was even pushed off the monkey bars a few times. Everything I said would be laughed at by a group of girls. When I asked if I could play four square, I was told that I was not allowed to because they did not want me playing with them. When I eventually got to play, everyone would team up, and hit the ball to my square, purposely trying to get me out. Because I was wearing Hello Kitty glasses, a girl once snatched them off my face and threatened to smash them. My long hair was yanked as if they were attempting to rip it out of my scalp. 
That was far from the worst that happened. At the age of ten, I was taught that if I killed myself, no one would notice. The words "go kill yourself" were spoken often to me.  Those were the comments that completely crushed me.  I did not want to terminate my life at that point, but it was painful to know that others wanted me to.  I begin to look at myself differently. I despised myself and began to believe that I was worthless. I used to come home from school every day and cry to my parents about how much I hated school. And every night, I would sit in front of the toilet, sick to my stomach, uncontrollably shaking, hyperventilating, sweating, and on the verge of throwing up at the thought of returning to school the next day.  My family was supportive and attempted to help me through everything, but I felt like I was a burden on them because of the drama I kept putting them through. I was scared that I would be missing out on a great future for myself if I followed through with these kinds of comments. I believed that it could be great because of all the suffering that I was being put through at such a young age. The bullying continued throughout the rest of elementary school.
People may believe it was not as horrible as I made it out to be, but I was completely destroyed by these experiences. I was a joyful child who enjoyed laughing, smiling, and playing. I  learned how to be angry and enraged all of the time because of elementary school. It taught me how to be harsh and mean to people at times, even though I am still a very kind and sympathetic person. At the same time, it gave me a view of how others may be feeling and to treat their feelings like an egg: very fragile. It took me years to build back the pieces that were broken, and I am not even completely put back together yet. Bullying had a profound impact on my life, and it continues to do so today. I am always wondering if I will ever be able to return to my former self.
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Sometimes when I feel so consumed by anger, or sadness, or numbness and I just need to start ranting for hours about politics or the obliviousness of my nation to their extreme racism/ableism/general bigotry or about my trauma or about somebody else's trauma and I’m just too tired and can't find my words I listen to no children and it makes everything bearable
#it's so cathartic#it's unapologetically hateful and that's really validating y'know#like sometimes I just can't gather my fancy words and talk about how misogyny has affected me since I was a lil baby#or about all the animal cruelty I’ve witnessed and all the animals I saw with my own two eyes get killed#or about how every time I open my mouth to criticize something racist in some Egyptian comedy I get the weird disgusted looks and the ‘’stop#-being a twitter snowflake’’ talk#and about how the teachers in my elementary school mistreated us#and how worse they've mistreated the disabled students#I remember once when I was in first or second grade one of our fucked up teachers said:#do you want to get beaten up like donkeys? donkeys who never care and beg for more beatings? do you want us to treat you like the cripples-#-​down there? and he pointed to the ‘’special school for differently abled children’’#the children were all cannibalizing each other and getting cannibalized and nobody cared#they encouraged it. even#and about how normalized child abuse is here#and about how I can never walk down the street without clutching my keys and glancing around#and I just need to cry ‘’I hate you. I fucking hate’’ at so many many people#it takes all of my hate and anger and turns them to something so beautiful#it's beautiful#the melody is not angry as the words are. it's cold and full of light like a winter morning#like running away in a meadow until your feet are blistered and never looking back#it's like they're saying ‘‘your anger can be this beautiful’’#music loveposting#vent#very reliable posts#child abuse tw#ableism tw#animal cruelty
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hafanforever · 3 years
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Last year, I took the Myers-Briggs test on 16personalities.com to determine my personality type, and I got ISFJ.
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After some searching to see which real people and fictional characters shared my type, I found one who I thought was my perfect match: Neville Longbottom from the Harry Potter book and film series.
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I was particularly pleased to discover that Neville is an ISFJ like me because he and I were exactly alike as preteens and young teenagers: timid, shy, introverted, insecure, unconfident, and above all, extremely nervous, anxious, and worrisome about almost everything, which also made us clumsy. Neville prominently displayed these personality traits during his early years at Hogwarts, most especially when he began his education, and I could see how I related to him that way because I was just like that when I began high school. Neville’s timid, unconfident nature in the beginning may have been even attributed to the fact that he was thrust out to a new, unfamiliar place with strangers all on his own at a young age without any parental figures to guide him or friends to help and comfort him. I didn’t attend boarding school for high school, or even anytime during my education, but I certainly did feel scared when I first started high school, not just because it was a whole new place for me after attending elementary school at the same school for my whole life, but because I was on my own (even though it was just for six hours a day) without my parents, family, or anyone I knew in this new, unfamiliar place. Neville was also scared to death of Snape, which made him even worse in potions that he was at first, and I know I sure as hell would have been terrified of a teacher like Snape, too! Luckily, none of my high school teachers were like Snape and I got along with the majority of them. 😉
But also like Neville, I became a stronger, braver, more confident person as I grew up. I’m a person who is steadfast and valiant in defending others, I stand up for myself, especially in whatever is right, and I absolutely refuse to be mistreated or oppressed by cruel and mean people. While I am still shy and at times unconfident and insecure, I definitely feel more confident in who I am now than I was when I was a teen, enough so that I don’t care what people think about me. 😉😊
So needless to say, Neville and I started out alike as youngsters and remained alike as we grew into adults. I am happy to know that he is one fictional character who is an ISFJ because it further supports how I always believed he was one to whom I could truly relate. 😁😄😉
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Yo did u make that post about your 9th grade science class
oh my God I was talking about it with my friend last night and now I’m losing my mind about it all over again sdkjhdfskh
so the school I went to for 9th grade was a Catholic high school, and it was one with like a GREAT reputation. Like, all the Catholic high schools in my area were ‘good schools’ but this was the like the Big One. Always had the best grades, happiest students, best sports teams, best plays, always did the most outreach with the elementary schools, like it was a very popular school. 
But then,
The summer before I started, the city shut down like...a fucking hundred Catholic schools, because no one wants to fund education I guess? And if your parents send you to Catholic school, they usually want you to stay there no matter what. So instead of all these students going to public school...a ton of them were forcibly transferred to this school (in the suburbs). Everyone was pissed- the city kids were mad because they had no attachment to this place and the commute was annoying. The teachers that transferred with them were pissed off about the whole affair. The teachers that previously worked in this school and didn’t lose their jobs to new teachers were stressed and had no way of controlling the overcrowded classrooms. Tuition went THROUGH THE ROOF. And their was a lot of tension between the city kids and the suburb kids for...literally no reason at all tbh, it was just There so all the classes were insane.
But my science class. Took insane to new levels. 
So, I need to preface this with the type of student I was: I liked science, I thought it was interesting, but science did not like me, and thought I was a bitch. No matter what I tried I was always just scrapping by in the class- but. I always dedicated myself to being the nice, quiet girl who sits in the front, because then the teachers like you, and whether you’re actually a good student or not they’ll give you allowances. 12th Grade gov class, I literally handed in my requirement-for-graduation research paper in a week and a half late and still got a hundred on it, because when the teacher asked me where it was I told her ‘I handed it in on the due date?’ and she immediately was like ‘Oh my God, you did? I’m so sorry!’, then gave me a day to get a ‘’‘new’’’ copy to her, and she felt so bad she gave me extra credit. Like, genuinely, I was determined to play this part and it paid off lmao. 
So for 9th grade I was obviously doing that, but compared to everyone else going crazy, I looked like a literal saint. The teachers in this school weren’t authorized to give detention- we had a school ‘Disciplinarian’, and basically you had to go to his office for him to tell you you have detention, it was weird, but if an entire class was acting up, each room had a call button so he could be summoned to the room to give the full class detention. But all 3 of my science teachers that year, instead of pressing the button, would send me down to his office to bring him back up to the classroom personally, so he would know that everyone EXCEPT me was getting detention. Like, every time one left they literally left in their notes for the new teacher ‘send Molly to get Mr. Chia if the class gets too bad’ it was so fucking funny. 
We went through 3 teachers that year. 
The first one was this old man with an impossible to pronounce last name, who walked with a cane and was considered one of the toughest teachers in the school. Before the end of October, he had mysteriously vanished. Like- they literally wouldn’t tell us where this man went. I feel like if he died or had a stroke, they would’ve had us pray for him during homeroom or something??? He left us no clues, he literally said to me ‘you did great on the worksheet today! Skip the homework, I’ll see you tomorrow’ and then for the next few weeks we had rotating substitutes until they found a new teacher kjshdgjkhd where did he GO
But anyway- he hated our class. He had the toughest teacher rep to live up to and he literally could not control a single student. Screamed his throat raw. Was constantly changing seating arraignments to try and keep certain kids apart. Was constantly getting bombarded with paper wasps and rubber bands and annoying kids asking invasive questions about his stroke. Kids were threating to fight him if he sent them to get detention. No one ever did the homework, everyone always yelling over him when he was trying to teach- in the later weeks before he disappeared, he literally just taught to me and like 3 other students in the front and tried to tune out the other kids. This poor dude omg. 
So, we had various substitutes that just put on movies for a few weeks, and then they found our second teacher. He was a cute, young guy, eager to mold young minds, was active in the church and his sister actually went to the school, so they though they could count on him to get our class together and stick it out for the full school year.
This man was mistreated so badly by these 15 year olds that he RAN AWAY TO ITALY.
I’M NOT EVEN BEING DRAMATIC HE LEGITMATELY MOVED TO ROME TO GET AWAY FROM US. 
He stood no chance. The SECOND he walked in all the kids could smell he was weak blood. The chaos went to new levels- people released real wasps into the room so everyone would run around in panic. Physical fights broke out *just* for the sake of disrupting class. No one would ever stop talking over him. A used tampon was once thrown at the chalkboard. I was shot in the arm with a homemade blow dart that a kid made during a test. People were always trying to hack into his laptop to get answers. A fire was started in the trashcan. Someone tried to climb out the window when he snapped and started screaming at everyone. He screamed so much his voice was almost perpetually hoarse in the days before he left. People would make inappropriate jokes about his fiancée and little sister. Someone tried to steal his camera a few times. The all had terrible nicknames for him.
I literally saw this man transform, before my very eyes, from someone happy and excited to live his passion, into a depressed and stressed out man who just wanted an out. I felt SO bad for him. I genuinely cannot imagine being pushed to my breaking point so hard that I decide my only option is to FLEE THE COUNTRY. But he literally came in one day like ‘guess what fuckers! I’ll be in Rome by the end of the week! Have fun in hell!’ ksdjfdskjfd
The third teacher- they had a hard time finding. Even people who were actively looking for teaching positions didn’t wanna take the job because word got around about us literally driving a man out of America. They ended up finding a teacher at another school who was good with ‘’’’’difficult students’’’’’ and offering him an obscene amount of money to switch. He...listen. He was nice.
He comes in the first day, says ‘So I don’t actually know what physical science is- I’m just gonna teach you guys chemistry’ and then proceeded to not actually teach chemistry. 
He got mad at the kids every now and then, but he was a lot calmer than the other teachers. He let A LOT slide and put on a lot of science videos to get out of trying to get through to the class. 
He was...not the most attentive. I distinctly remember being in the lab, and we were doing that thing where you make flames change colors, and while he had his back turned a guy at my table lit his worksheet on fire, laughed, wasn’t paying attention and let the flame get to his sleeve, had his sleeve catch fire, panicked and beat it out, all in a few moments, all before Mr. Sliffy managed to turn around to catch him. It was an almost completely silent affair, but I feel like the teacher should’ve noticed the residual smoke coming off a kids arm??? He didn’t say anything though khdfsfhkds
So we really skated through for the last trimester that year- apart from a few labs he’d just put on like, ocean life documentaries and if he saw you paying attention he’d give you full class credit. He gave out candy to ‘anyone who’s not being an asshole’, so while some kids were still wild and unruly, everyone calmed down enough so the constant screaming turned into more. Bearable chatter. Tests were few and far between and not that difficult. 
But I still cannot believe I had to live through this class like....I think I developed tinnitus just from sitting in it everyday. I was like constantly on guard for a fist or a dart to hit me for months afterward. It was too much like...can we please do something about schools oh my God. I don’t even know how to officially end this post. Please be nice to teachers oh my God. 
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kayteewritessteve · 4 years
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Beautifully Unfinished - 2/8
Description: One foolish outburst, one moment of weakness at the worst possible time, and everything goes up in smoke. Who knew finally voicing your true, deep-rooted feelings, would lead to the complete destruction of your most cherished friendship?
Masterlist HERE.
Word Count: 1,660 ish.
Pairing: Modern!Steve Rogers x Reader.
Rating: PG.
Warnings: Curse words. Lots of angst. But if you’ve read my stories before, then you know how this will end.
A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors and this story, so there’s that.
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Elementary School.
Your hands slide along the muddy ground, digging in as your weight is abruptly shifted onto them. You have only been in this school for a week, and already you’ve obviously made some enemies.
But you are the new kid, so that isn’t really a shocking revelation. Kids can just be so stinking mean.
You had to move at the end of grade 6, and started in this new school for the beginning of grade 7. Your father had gotten a promotion, and along with it came you all having to be relocated to the city. To Brooklyn.
So here you are, your blue jeans now covered in mud and your hands scraped up from the small rocks and gravel hidden just under the grassy surface. What you’ve done to piss this kid off is beyond you. He clearly has a few issues. That much you are sure of.
“Get up, loser,” he taunts, causing you to struggle to get your bearings back. To come to terms with the fact that this is your new life now. This is the school you’ll live out the next, and final, two years of your childhood days in. Then you’ll head off to High School, which probably won’t be any better. What with your clearly horrible luck.
You’d just been minding your own business a few moments ago, sitting under a tree and reading a book. Avoiding all the other kids as you didn’t know anyone here, and you have always been shy. At least in your old school, you had friends you’d known since kindergarten. A few kids who had befriended you and then stuck with you over the years.
But here, you are entirely on your own. You have no one.
“Did you not hear me!” He yells, causing you to flinch at the tone, his friends noticing this and laughing at you for it. You take a deep breath, before shakily pushing back up onto your feet. Glancing down to see your clothes are now ruined, knowing instantly that your mother is going to be livid at you for dirtying your new school clothes.
You could tell her that you’d been pushed down by a bully, but then she’d go to your teacher demanding the kids be punished. And even in your young mind, you know that would only make things worse. So you’ll just claim you’d slipped on the playground and landed in a puddle.
“Why are you doing this?” You quietly ask, just needing to know what you’d done to deserve this torment and mistreatment.
He scoffs at you, as if you're the idiot, “you’re the new kid,” he says in a ‘duh’ tone. “And you were in our lunch spot,” he adds a few seconds later.
“You could have just told me, and I would have moved to someplace else. You didn’t have to push me,” you reply, your voice a little stronger this time, thanks to the anger over his ridiculous reasonings for bullying you.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He asks as he goes to push you down again.
Just as your butt lands with a plop on the ground, now dirtying your backside to match the front of you, a voice calls out. “Hey! Leave her alone!”
Tears prickle in your eyes, as you glance up and around to see who is sticking up for you. To see who has come to your rescue. And once they land on the little form running towards you, you gasp. He is so small, maybe even a little smaller than you, but he is beautiful.
All flowing blonde hair and deep blue eyes, both features shining brightly in the little sunshine that peaks through the clouds. Maybe it is just because he is your only saviour at the moment, or because you genuinely have never seen a more charming looking kid in your life. But either way, you can’t take your eyes off him as he moves hastily towards you. Fluidly putting himself between you and the small grouping of bullies.
He moves as if he is entirely used to his small size, like he is aware his body is little but the sheer size of his heart makes him large. Makes him fearless, and therefore he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t falter but instead moves with such grace and pose he appears to be almost floating.
It’s in this moment you finally notice he has both his hands up, forming fists in front of him, as if ready to take on the world. And maybe he is, maybe he thinks he truly can.
A few minutes—and punches—later, he sits muddy and battered beside you. They’d been much harsher to him then they had been to you, he’d taken it all like it was just a few gusts of wind. It hadn’t been till a larger kid had come running from the school, and stepped in to defend you both, that the bullies had finally moved on.
And the second they are gone, the larger kid turns around to glare down at your saviour. “What were you even thinking, Punk? Taking on 6 kids by yourself! You’re lucky you only have muddy clothes and a fat lip right now! It could have been so much worse!”
You glance to the side, hesitantly looking at your hero and seeing him glaring right back at the only person currently clean and standing at the moment. “They were bullying a girl, Buck! I wasn’t just going to stand back and let them!”
The larger kids eyes snap to you, as if just now realizing you are present. That you are sitting in the mud beside his friend. He gives you a little once over then sighs as his eyes drift back to the blonde, “you should have come and got me first. You never think before you act,” he holds a hand out for his friend, helping him up.
“There wasn’t any time to think it through,” the blonde defends, as the larger kid then holds his hand out to you. You stare at it for a moment before hesitantly taking it, and allowing him to pull you up to your shaky legs.
“You are just so reckless sometimes,” the larger one says, sounding both exasperated and amused. Which is a weird combo for sure.
“I don’t like bullies, Buck. You know this,” the smaller one adamantly replies, causing the other to chuckle quietly.
“Yeah, I do,” he mumbles in agreement. “But still doesn’t mean you should stupidly throw yourself into every fight, alone.”
As they continue to argue back and forth, you glance down at your ruined clothes. Quickly wiping your hands along your jeans in an attempt to get some of the mud off. It’s a pointless endeavour though, as your hands are also covered in dirt and only stand to smear it around more thoroughly. Great.
“Are you okay?” A gentle voice hits your ears and you snap your eyes up, seeing the blonde now standing directly in front of you. Your breath halts slightly at how close he is all of a sudden, at the perfect view you now have of his face. You hadn’t really gotten a chance to see him up close yet, as he’d come out of nowhere, then had his back to you as he confronted your bullies, then he was beside you and you’d been too nervous to really look at him. To truly take him in.
And now that you can, and have, you are speechless.
Now not having any confidence to speak, you just nod your head in answer to his question. He gives you a small once over, clearly checking for any injuries then his lovely eyes meet yours. “Are you hurt anywhere?” And this time you shake your head in answer, he looks unconvinced for a second before seeming to see the honesty in your eyes and nodding. Then one of his muddy hands gestures to himself, “I’m Steve,” before gesturing to the larger brunette behind him, “that’s Bucky. What’s your name?”
You nod then quietly answer, “Y/N.” Your eyes then glance over his tiny form, “are you okay?”
When your eyes finally land back on his face, he has a small smile on his lips, “I’m fine. Nothing I haven’t been through before,” he chuckles, his smile growing wider, “this was actually tame in comparison to my past scuffles.” And instantly you can hear the pride in his voice, he is proud of getting into ‘scuffles’, as he called them. He is proud of standing up to the bullies.
The larger one—Bucky as you’ve just been told, sighs loudly and shakes his head, “don’t sound so damn pleased about that fact, Punk.”
He glances over his shoulder at his friend, the cheekiness now in his voice loud and clear, “but I am pleased about it, Jerk.”
Bucky glares at Steve, though judging by the smirk he can’t contain currently on his lips, it’s playfully. Steve then turns back to you, “do you want to join us for lunch?”
Your eyes widen slightly, before you quickly correct it and nod eagerly, “oh, um, yes. Please.”
He gives you a glorious smile and then the three of you head towards the cafeteria.
And unbeknownst to you, this is such an important moment in your life. This is the day you meet the two guys who’ll become your lifelong best friends. This is the day you first feel the beginning tingles of your quickly forming crush and love for Steve.
From the very first day, when he’d come gracefully running to your rescue, you’d felt it. You’d known he was going to play some huge role in your life instantly. And you’ll be entirely right in that thought. He’ll become your best friend, your rock, your world, your one true love. Truly and fully.
Because he’s got you like a rag doll, and now you’re dancing on his strings.
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@caps-lockdown @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @tfandtws @boxofteenageideas @wangdeasang @giggleberts @strawberry-gothchild @theonelittleone @agentbadbitch @ratwrites @starrystellars @bandsandanimefreak @rockyroadthepastryarchy @lovvliies @cuffski @icesoccerer @alwaysright4 @lilsthethrills @steeeeverogers @zombiepotterfour @mu-mu-rs @ledandan1244 @straightforwardly @denzmallows @xremember-me-notx @gwynethjodie @lollipopdomination @capstopavenger @jemimah-b99 @rcvenqers @justkending @alagalaska @silent-loucidity @sabertooth-potato @pies-wands-and-more @interstellarmess @gabriella69816 @phantom-soilder @wordlesscaptain @captain-hammer-of-asgard @starstucknature @viarogers @pixieferry @kaithezaftig @the-kinkiest-goblin @hysterically-original @badassbeckettswan @heyiamthatbitch @zlixlle @capsicledoll @givemehopenfandoms @pretendingandpreposterous @frozen-phoenix17 @emotionallysalty @saturngirlz @atomicsludgedonutbiscuit @ivannagotthebeat @bohemian-barbie @marvelous-capsicle @ivoryhazlewood @steverogersxreader @cjhorseback @jasminecalia @secondstar2disney @jessiedaeum @betsynodak @capricornprince118 @just-ladyme @pinkleopardss @drayshadow @sister-of-stars @wiserebelpartypie @dark-night-sky-99 @patzammit @cs-please @troublermalik @bratstopmom @anika-ann
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sansbun · 3 years
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INTRO | PART 1 | NEXT
Word count: 1.1k
Warning: mentions of bullying, slight mention of death, racism, depressing themes.
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They say the less you know, the better. Clearly I didn’t understand what everyone meant by that. It’s not that I was against finding out, but I definitely didn’t expect I’d figure out in such a agonizing way..
Let me take you back in time where my life slowly started changing before I could even register it, shaping it into the bittersweet chaos that it’s now.
I was born here in South Korea, in a somewhat small town near Seoul. Personally I don’t recall many memories apart from being bullied as soon as I entered school. I don’t have the typical looks you see, I was a little more.. “sun kissed” then the kids here and my facial features also made me stand out from the crowd, not in a good way of course. I was always picked on and made fun of, but that didn’t really bother me at such a age. I was too clueless and young to understand any of their actions and remarks towards the color of my skin.
However things began to get worse once it wasn’t only my classmates picking on me. When the teachers joined in on the name calling and mistreating, my parents did all they could and even made me transfer schools, thinking the situation would get better. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. Not the first time, not even the second time and definitely not the third time around.
It only got worse as name calling turned into taking away privileges, that the other kids had. For example, not letting me use the restroom, resulting me in peeing myself in front of the whole class. Not only did that further fuel the bullying and I became a laughing stock, but it also caused me a series of health problems when it occurred in winter, for obvious reasons.
My parents couldn’t do anything anymore as no matter how many times I switches schools, they somehow always had a problem with accepting me and respecting me, weather it be the classmates or the actual teachers.
The final straw was my beloved grandfather passing away due to an accident. I was only 9 years old when my whole family flew to America to start a brand new life. Since then I only remember happy memories as school wasn’t a constant nightmare anymore. I felt more at home and welcomed in a country I’ve never been in, then in my own country.
I couldn’t even speak english properly, yet nobody judged me for that. Nobody mocked me for being different. There were many kids like me who went through a similar process and soon enough, I started making friends and stepped out of my shell.
I was always a shy kid, but at this point I bloomed into a social butterfly. Always excited and running around somewhere. I was a really good student actually. My grades were high and I had good manners so I was never in uncomfortable situations in school. I even got my classmates to hang out with me after class! Soon enough I found out I have a huge passion for dancing, as I spent most of my days making up choreographies with my best friend. Sometimes we’d even stay up past midnight, practicing over and over and enjoying every second of it.
She was a little older than me, taller than me, and obviously more skilled compared to me. And that’s exactly why I adored her so much. I looked up to her. She was like a older sister that I never had. We would dance for hours and hours. I felt truly happy at that point in my life, my family was happy and safe, I had friends and i finally wasn’t scared to be myself.
But one day it all changed, I woke up confused with no answers. It was so sudden.. I went from getting ready for school, to packing up my bags and saying goodbye to my best friend. What exactly happened? Ah I still don’t have answers till this day, but at that time the only thing I knew was that it was my dad’s fault.. and I still can’t bring myself to forgive him from taking the freedom he once gave me.
Everything happened so quickly. I remember crying so much that I couldn’t see.. so much that I most likely knocked myself out, as I remember waking up in the middle of a very long airplane flight. It was like my whole life was shattering. The fear of being unsafe once again really got to me. I felt so helpless.
My friends.. they’re taken away from me again. Why is it that everytime im close to someone, they dissapear? Why must fate always tear me apart from the people I care about? That’s probably not what a kid should be feeling or thinking about but here we are. I had no idea what was coming, I was scared but I truly didn’t imagine it would be this bad..
It went from being happy around everyone to being afraid of people, even being in a room with a few people made me anxious. As if adjusting to a new place wasn’t already hard for a kid in their early teens, the bullying had to start once again. This time with my peers acting as if I was invisible, as if I didn’t exist. I guess it started out as a joke, making fun of my accent, to me not being able to spell in my own language due to not speaking it while I grew up in the states.
But soon it turned into pretending like they don’t see me, hear me or awknowlege my presence. Little by little it got worse, from trash talking about me while I was in the room, to denying to talk to me and partner up with me in class, all the way to throwing out my belongings in the trash.. including my school work, contents of my backpacks and even my shoes..
We weren’t exactly well off and those shoes meant a lot for me, they were from my dad who managed to find me the same pair of shoes as my favorite group at that time, BTS. I danced in those shoes, I went to school with them, actually now that I come to think of it.. they were my only shoes that looked presentable.
We worse slippers in school, and on that particular day I came home very late, humiliated and with my head full of thoughts and questions on why others dislike people like me so much. I spent a few hours looking for my shoes, even the teacher didn’t understand, but when she found them in the school trashcan she didn’t even stand up for me.
She thought I did it on purpose to make the other kids look bad.. however when the principal found out she had a talk with those girls which resulted in them being even harsher with me. Thank god elementary is over and I’m finally in high school.
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A/N: After a very long wait it’s finally here! Sorry it took so long I had a writers block and couldn’t get myself to finish it, I wasn’t proud of the way it turned out at first but I hope you somewhat enjoyed reading this and that it didn’t make ur mood drop 🥺
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What It’s Like Being Gay in a Town Where It Isn’t Accepted
     I made the choice to come out publicly mid-March of 2020, after the COVID-19 pandemic left the majority of Illinois stuck in our homes for the safety of others. I thought this would be a good time for me to make my announcement as it was an opportunity to avoid facing any of my peers after the fact, and I also wanted to do so before I moved into my first year of college.
     If I’m being honest, it was something I had always feared as a child. Being an individual who tries too hard to please everyone and be liked, I knew it was something that wasn’t necessarily the most accepted where I lived. I live in a predominantly white and conservative area, and there is nothing wrong with that, but that is a vital piece of information to know as I explain myself in this piece of writing. I moved to my current town when I was in the first grade, and based off my interests, personality, and mannerisms, everyone immediately made their assumptions about me, so I quickly began to alter and adjust accordingly in order to keep the remarks at bay. Additionally, my mom worked in the school district, so in order to avoid being talked about since I already felt like I was in the public eye, I just wanted to blend in with the crowd as much as I could.
     The lying to myself and to everyone around me didn’t cease until I was already out of high school. The first three words that title this post are “What It’s Like”, so with that being said, I want to share specific experiences I have had growing up that have stuck with me, and are all contributors as to why I waited so long to come out. Being gay in a town where it isn’t accepted is:
Giving a sheet of paper that has “GAY” written in big letters to your Kindergarten teacher, asking what it meant and why a 16 year-old handed it to you on the bus
Being targeted by a group of first grade classmates at recess for being a gymnast, and that it’s a “gay sport for girls”
Being told in an elementary music class, with an unchanged voice, as all elementary schoolers have, that I sing like a girl and that it would make more sense to go sit with them if we sound the same anyways
Being twelve and intentionally coughed on by an eighth grader, followed by the kindest “Move out of my way, faggot”
Hearing boys on the other side of the locker room say they feel uncomfortable that they have to change around me
Being shoved into a gym locker without any clothes on
Hearing an upperclassman say they don’t want the “fat closeted kid” on his team in gym class
Being shown a photo of a skinned deer with a caption “I am going to cut you up”
Singing a solo for a school assembly with the choir and directly facing the front row of boys while they laugh
Being called out in class for “only wanting equal LGBTQ+ rights because I’m too scared to come out of the closet”
Having someone tell you, (”No offense”), “If you want my guy friends to like you, you just need to stop acting gay, because you do a little bit” and that “you dressed like a grandma today”
Being called a bloody tampon because you dyed your hair red
Being laughed at for what you’re wearing by a whole table of underclassman boys that turn around and watch you get a napkin before lunch
Having a group of boys from school make a (very condescending) point to all like a boy’s comment complimenting one of my pictures on social media
And this is the one that will stick with me more than any other one:
Being sent this message on an anonymous social media platform this year-- 
“You’re the biggest f***wad I know. Just come out as gay already because you’ve seen more girls get undressed simply because you’re friends with them. Your tattoo looks cool but that’s about it. You look like an emo girl trying not to cut her wrists”
My mother raised me on kindness. She raised me on lifting others up. She raised me on being there for others. The thing I struggled with the most is that I couldn’t get my mind wrapped around the fact that I tried my hardest to be kind to others, no matter how they treated me, and it felt like I just had disrespect and insults spat back at me. I found myself using the “not everyone is going to like you” phrase often, because there were many times where it felt like, truly, I was disliked by everyone.
My junior year of high school, I fell into an eating disorder, and consequently lost weight and started dressing differently to dodge any negative attention that I had been faced with previously. I started partying. Drinking every weekend. Hanging with people fueled by hate. The result was all I could have asked for. I was liked by my classmates. I was on Homecoming Court. Guys at my school willingly spoke to me. The only issue with all of that though is that there was no genuine part of Carson that was present. It was entirely phony.
Once I found a friend group I felt accepted in my senior year of high school, my world entirely changed. I gradually found myself and became more comfortable with who I was as a person and I no longer felt a need to pretend about anything. I had that sense of security, so I didn’t have to worry about the opinions of people that didn’t have anything to do with me. I knew who I was, and I was still going to be respectful and kind towards those who weren’t to me, because that’s all I can do.
With all that said, there are some things that can be done.
I understand if my way of life doesn’t completely align with your beliefs, and I completely respect that. However, if it doesn’t affect you directly, then there is no point, none at ALL, to make an individual feel lesser than you, feel isolated, or feel like an alien. I have always been Carson, and always will be.
I am not a parent so some may think my opinion is unjustified here, but as children we are taught certain principles and morals that shape the way we treat others. If a child is raised that they need to show kindness to everyone EXCEPT group ABC or group XYZ, then something is wrong there in my eyes. 
My teachers were always great about making everyone feel included and welcome in their classrooms. I do challenge the education system as a whole, though, to not shy away from conflict regarding homophobia. Many times it is brushed off to avoid “ruffling any feathers”, so to speak, but that is not a solution that I can find the least bit of validity in. By sitting back and letting mistreatment happen to avoid “taking a side”, unfortunately, you are doing nothing but taking the side of the oppressor.
As the youth is shifting towards a more vocal and diverse generation, it is important for this to be talked about. Your location on the map should not be a deciding factor in how you are going to be treated, especially if it’s something you live with that can not and will not change. There is so much negativity and mistreatment among children and adolescents that is swept under the rug, and there needs to be some sort of action taken to get the general attitude among the youth (and adults, too, for that matter) moving in a more positive direction.
Be kind to one another. Find common ground within your differences, and learn to respect them. Stay safe and healthy, as always, and I hope everyone is doing well.
And happy Pride Month.
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addressingsophism · 5 years
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Bullying and Culture: A Personal View
I remember being bullied very harshly in school. It was only a few people, but I was attacked everyday. I was told it was because I was "weird". No one ever explained what that meant. I think it was an excuse. I started being bullied in elementary school because I was the first foster child that anyone had seen. It was the adults at first. Rich adults and teachers that had clawed their way into the wealthy areas and school system were scared and prejudiced towards foster children, often touting stereotypes at me. The kids learned to bully from watching the teachers and parents. The kids had to justify what the adults were doing after all. Better to be in the side of power and so on. From that point I avoided arrogant personality types, which often projected their feelings onto me. They often tried to deal with their secret inferiority complexes by declaring someone else was even more inferior, and then they'd attack them, verbally, physically or socially. So I avoided those people, but I ended up socially isolated because they'd seek me out when they either felt at their most low or high. I rarely retaliated, but the disturbances caused by people seeking me out and attacking me lead to routine victim blaming by adults and on Lookers. To pass the time I studied world cultures, creative thinking and critical thinking, which confused my peers and the adults around me, since most of them were radical traditionalists and close-minded. They were obsessed with creating and maintaining over-simplistic worldviews based on stereotype-assessment and attribution. This resulted in me being slandered out of their confusion. That itself resulted in people trying to change me (to be more like them) or encouraging others to mistreat me or reject me socially. Social interference was common. Bullying was also common in my family, but the victims often went back and forth between lodging concerns and praising abusers. They always had their excuses, but they (the excuse) were transparent to anyone with a brain. Some had issues with me because I questioned authority and tradition. Some had issues with me because I questioned culture and localized "normalcy". Some had issues with me because I reacted to bullying instead of being a passive victim. Groups often engaged in group bullying and group victim-blaming in order to assert their group dominance. It was a game of "stop using logic and obey our culture and demands or we will bully you and lie about you". False accusations were common forms of punishments by groups that sought to punish outsiders. They also did it to flex their power and status. It became a vicious cycle were my peers and the authorities around me became obsessed status, reputation, status and rationalization.
You had to walk on eggshells much of the time.
They'd attack anyone that didn't comply with their demands for attention and direction. They'd call people that resisted "crazy" or they'd claim people lacked self awareness, but only if their analysis of how much social support they had dictated they could get away with it (meaning those that thought they were popular would attempt to bully those they thought were less popular). New people were radically quizzed about how many people they knew, what they believed and how strong their relationships were. Not one person in my entire youth ever discussed logic, and neither did the adults. They all valued social status over logic. They even tried to pervert formal logic by saying people each had their own form of logic and objective formal logic didn't exist. They all rejected reading books that contradicted their ego-assembled philosophies.
They were the center of their own universe and their exposure to beliefs in condescending and exaggerated stereotypes not only influenced but controlled their entire worldview, thinking and interactions with others. To question their confirmation bias or ego was akin to madness in their eyes. Everything must be kept simple, and they could never admit to error because the risk of losing face was deemed catastrophic.
They also rejected cosmopolitan-multiculturalism and scientific thinking. There was just this obsession with people judging themselves and others by social acceptability instead of on ethics, merit, strength and intelligence. Instead adherence to beliefs were substitutes for all of those virtues. And so bullying was built around that whole framework. To this day I still look at my peers with disappointment, as most of them are still obsessed with status and fear being judged as an outsider... while promoting adherence to narrow culture instead logic, science and cosmopolitan concepts. So many were guilty of bullying and you can clearly see their current psychological framework is built on making sure that is never exposed and that their statuses are secured.
The foundations of comparative-identity are also seen occasionally, per when they throw judgments into the world based on condescending stereotypes; these are often directed at the least advantaged in society... the homeless, children, the abused, animals, those struggling with substance abuse issues, etc.
I'm sick of keeping these secrets because that just seems to encourage the cycle. People say it's wrong and unsightly to speak about real world issues. I don't think it is. I'm not going to be shamed or bullied into silence. The world has a bully culture problem and it needs to be outed and corrected.
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Beca and Chloe are married. You can decide how famous Beca is. Chloe works in a HS (teacher/social worker). She suspects one of her students is being abused because she acts like Beca used to when she first met her. She enlists in her wife's help to get the student to open up. (and maybe they'll foster her?)
[Okay, so this has been in my drafts for ages. Finally sat down and finished it. I hope y’all enjoy it. Also, I made her a elementary school teacher instead of hs (: Trigger warning: Mentions of child abuse]
Chloe really loves her job, loves her kids. All 20 of them. …Okay, so maybe they aren’t technically hers, but for 8 hours of the day, she’s responsible for them. She loves them– her little second graders, each of them unique and wonderful. They never fail to make her smile or laugh, and yes– sometimes frustrated, but she still loves them.
And they love her, too. They draw her pictures and tell her she’s ‘the bestest teacher ever’. It warms her heart. Yeah, Chloe really loves her job – there’s never a dull moment.
A shrill ringing brings Chloe out of her thoughts. “Okay, guys– that was the bell. Remember to read a chapter of your books. Have a great day and I’ll see you tomorrow!” She smiles at each of them as they pass her desk, nodding at the various voices spouting off goodbyes and ‘see you tomorrow Mrs. Beale!’s.
Her smile falters, however as she brings her gaze to one of the desks in the back. Sitting in her desk still, is one of her more quieter students. Her gaze is downcast as she slowly puts away her things, her movements almost reluctant. Just like every day, she is the last to leave and the first to arrive.
Chloe regards the child carefully, watching each movement, taking note of her long sleeves and down turned lips. Her dark brown locks are pulled up into a messy bun and the black glasses on her lightly freckled face keep sliding down her nose. She pushes them up every few seconds, mindful of the tape in the middle of them that seems to be the only thing keeping them together.
The little girl looks up and meets Chloe’s gaze, face an emotionless mask. Chloe thinks a seven year old probably shouldn’t be so good at hiding their emotions like that. “Mrs. Beale,” She says after a moment as she finally stands.
And Chloe waits – waits for the question she knows is going to come. She asks it every day. “Yes, Finley?”
“Do you think I could help clean up?” She asks quietly.
For weeks now, Chloe has had a feeling– something not right. It sits at the pit of her stomach, twisting and knotting into something that makes her feel a little sick. “Of course. I’d definitely appreciate the help.” She smiles softly at the little girl, trying to hide her growing concern.
Finley doesn’t have a lot of friends– or really, any, now that Chloe thinks about it. The little girl tends to keep to herself and she doesn’t speak much. Her grades are good, though– clearly very smart.
They spend the next twenty minutes tidying up the classroom, Chloe quietly instructing her what to do. When everything is done, Finley looks up at Chloe almost desperately. “Is there anything else I can do?” She asks, pushing escaped strands of hair behind her ear.
Chloe frowns down at the small child. “Finley,” She hedges gently, eyes soft and face open. “Do you not want to go home, sweetie?”
Finley looks hesitant, eyes glancing away. “I just– I just really like school.” She says after a moment, studiously avoiding Chloe’s gaze.
Chloe watches as that same strand of hair as before escapes and without much thought, her hand lifts with the intent to push it behind Finley’s ear, but she freezes as Finley visibly flinches, body tensing as if preparing for a blow.
Feelings of anger and concern fill Chloe almost simultaneously, but the anger takes a backseat to the overwhelming concern. Her hand drops back to her side as she bends slightly so she’s not towering over the little girl. “Is there– is there something you want to tell me, Fin?” She watches as intense gray eyes meet hers for a moment before they quickly move somewhere else. “You can tell me anything, you know.” Chloe smiles softly, face open and eyes soft.
Finley is quiet, hesitant and that’s really all Chloe needs to be even more concerned. She’s seen this before– this reluctance, this fear; being withdrawn and quiet. Chloe has seen it in Beca. And her heart breaks at the thought of this precious little girl being mistreated. “No, Mrs. Beale. There’s nothing.” She finally says, features morphing back into that neutral little mask.
Nodding, Chloe forces a smile. “Okay, honey, but– just know that I’m always here if you need anything. Anything at all, okay?” Slowly, a hand reaches out to gently place a comforting hand on Finley’s little shoulder. She doesn’t flinch as terribly this time and after a moment, her body relaxes slightly under the touch.
“Okay, Mrs. Beale.” She says with a soft little nod.
Chloe smiles again. “Okay. I’ll tell you what. You can stay here with me until I have to leave, okay? So long as you know it won’t get you into trouble. Do you not take the bus?”
Finley smiles a little at the mention of being able to stay longer, but it disappears just as quickly as it appeared. “No. I walk to and from school.”
A frown mars Chloe’s features. Who lets their 7 year old walk to and from school? She shakes her head at the thought and stands up straight. “Why don’t you go get a head start on your reading, hm? I’ve got some things to do before I lock up the classroom.”
The little girl nods and moves to sit at her desk, pulling out her book from her bag and opening it to the page they all left off on.
–-
“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.” Beca says as she picks up the papers that Chloe had been going over and moves them to the coffee table before she settles down beside the redhead and pulls her into her lap.
Chloe doesn’t fight the movement and instead settles in Beca’s lap, legs going out to rest on the couch. She scoots down a little so that she’s able to rest her head in the crook of Beca’s neck. In turn, Beca wraps one arm around Chloe’s side while the other helps hold her up by holding on gently to the redhead’s upper outer thigh. “You wanna talk about it?” Beca asks delicately as she presses a kiss to her wife’s forehead.
“It’s just–” Chloe sighs softly and wraps her arms around Beca’s middle, nose nuzzling into the smaller woman’s neck. “One of my students… I think– I think maybe she’s being abused.”
Chloe feels Beca stiffen beneath her. She can feel the way Beca’s fingers dig slightly into her before she seems to force them to relax. “What– what uh, makes you think that? I mean, that’s a pretty serious accusation.” Beca finally says after a long pause, voice hesitant.
There’s another pregnant pause, where Chloe tries to gather her thoughts. “Well, she– she kind of reminds me of you, you know– before…” She trails off, knowing Beca would know what she meant. “I’m not sure what to do, Becs. I can tell she wants to talk to me, but it’s evident that she’s terrified to.”
“I see.” Beca replies gently, pulling Chloe a little bit closer– both for her own comfort, and her wife’s. “What are you doing to do about it?”
Chloe sighs. “There’s a protocol I have to go follow, but they won’t do anything if Fin doesn’t explicitly say that she’s being abused. There has to be proof.” Chloe’s lips pull down in a frown. “I know she wants to tell me, I can see it in her eyes, but she’s scared. I think if she had someone she could– relate to.”
Beca tenses slightly. “Are you suggesting that I talk to her?”
Chloe sits up, eyes widening slightly. “I wasn’t, but…” She chews on her lower lip. “Maybe you could?”
There’s a pause, where Beca mulls over the idea, even though she already knows she’ll do it. If not for Chloe, than this child– who used to be her. And all Beca ever wanted when she was little, was someone she could count on. “Okay. If you think it’ll help.”
“I do. Can you come after school tomorrow? She always asks to stay later.” Beca frowns at that, remembering her own reasons why she stayed late anywhere.
“I’ll be there.” Beca confirms, leaning up to press a soft kiss to the corner of Chloe’s mouth.
Just like every morning, Finley is the first to show up. She seems more demur than usual, and that worries Chloe. “Morning, Finley.” She greets as the child takes her seat.
“Hi, Mrs. Beale.” She replies quietly, as she takes her usual seat.
The rest of the day is uneventful, and by the time the final bell rings, Beca is texting her, saying she’s outside.
Again, just like every day, Finley is the last to leave. Chloe waits. “Mrs. Beale? Can I help clean?”
Chloe smiles sadly, and nods. “Sure, but– my wife is coming in to sit with me until I have to go. Is that okay?”
Finley looks hesitant, but nods before she goes about the room to pick up. Chloe notes that she’s moving a little slower than usual, holding herself a little more stiffly.
There’s a knock on the door, and Chloe looks up to see her wife hovering in the doorway. “Mind if I come in?” Beca asks.
Chloe smiles softly and nods.
“Who’s this?” Beca asks casually, as she leans against Chloe’s desk.
“Beca, this is one of my students, Finley. Finley, this is my wife, Beca.”
Finley does a tiny little wave, before going back to her task. Chloe looks up at Beca in concern, before giving a subtle nod in Finley’s direction.
Chloe watches Beca as she studies Finley for a moment, watches her move about the room. Beca’s face hardens for a moment, before she manages to school her features. After a moment, Beca moves away from Chloe’s desk and sits in one of the student desks, near Finley who is bending to pick up a scrap piece of paper.
“Hey, kiddo.” Beca starts, gently. Chloe’s heart picks up it’s pace, stomach churning with anxiety. Finley looks up at Beca with wide eyes. “Mrs. Beale is worried about you.” The little girl glances over in Chloe’s direction and Chloe quickly looks down, pretending to be engrossed in a piece of paper on her desk.
“Sh–she is?” Finley asks quietly.
Beca nods gently. “Yeah, she thinks– she thinks maybe you’re like I was.”
Finley glances away for a moment, before she brings her gaze back to Beca. “Like–like what?” She asks very quietly.
Beca is quiet for a moment, before she slowly pulls up her right sleeve. Chloe knows what’s there. Burn scars. The thought of someone hurting Beca makes her sick. “See these?” Finley nods hesitantly. “They’re scars. When I was little, I lived with a very mean man. He was my mom’s boyfriend. He used to hurt me a lot and would tell me not to tell anyone, or else he’d do something really bad.”
Finley looks pale, her little hands shaking slightly. “W-what happened to h-him?”
“I finally told someone, and he went to jail, and he never hurt me again.” Beca replies, voice thick with emotion. “Is there– is there something that you want to tell me? Mrs. Beale, maybe? She wants so badly to help you, you know. She cares so much about you.”
“She does?” Finley asks, and Chloe has to fight with herself not to look up or speak, not wanting to spook the little girl.
“So much, dude. And so do I.” Beca replies, her voice soft. Softer than Chloe thinks she’s ever heard it.
Finley is very quiet for a moment and when Chloe looks up, she can see that there are silent little tears falling down her face and Chloe’s heart seizes painfully in her chest. She has to resist the urge to get up and scoop the little girl into her arms.
“Take your time, it’s okay, Finley.” Beca says gently, now facing the little girl in her chair. Finley sniffs, before she slowly lifts up one of her sleeves. Chloe’s blood runs cold as she spots the hand shaped bruises along her arm and wrist. “Oh, kid.” Beca says, sadly. “Who’s hurting you?”
Finley sniffs and wraps her little arms around herself. “M-my daddy.” She replies quietly. “W-what’s g-going to happen?”
Beca glances up at her wife, eyes red rimmed. “Chlo?”
Chloe stands slowly and moves across the room before she squats low in front of Finley. “I’m going to call some people who are going to come and ask you some questions, and then they’re going to go and get your daddy and talk to him, and he’ll most likely go to jail.“
Finley is full on shaking now, tears falling fast. “I–I’m s-scared.”
Chloe thinks her heart breaks right there on the spot. “Oh, honey. I know.” She opens up her arms slowly, offering a hug, but not entirely expecting the little girl to step into the embrace.
So, color her surprised when Finley practically clings to her like a life line, little body shaking. Gently, her arms wrap around the little girl as she buries her face in Chloe’s neck. She looks up at Beca who is watching the scene with a sad expression. “It’s okay, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”
Finley doesn’t get much rest after that, with CPS and police asking her questions and documenting her injuries.
“What’s going to happen, now?” Chloe asks the little girl’s new appointed social worker as they watch the little girl fight sleep in the hospital bed.
“She’ll go into foster care. The father admitted to the abuse, and even if he didn’t, the mother said it happened frequently.”
“And she didn’t do anything about it?” Beca asks, incredulous.
The social worker shrugs. “He probably abused her, too. Still, the mother is a druggie, and Finley can’t be placed back in her care. So she’ll go into foster care and–”
“No!” They all look in Finley’s direction. The little girl is trying to climb out of the hospital bed, so Chloe is quick to slip her hands beneath Finley’s arms and set her back on the bed. “No! Mrs. Beale, y-you and B-Beca c-can’t leave me!” She sobs, little body shaking.
“Oh, honey.” Chloe wraps her arms around Finley and allows the little girl to cling to her. “I won’t. We won’t.”
“Chlo?” Beca steps forward, brows furrowed.
Chloe turns and gives Beca a look, to which Beca nods. “Is there anyway that she can be placed with us?” Beca asks.
“As a teacher, I became a certified foster parent when I first started.” Chloe says as she picks Finley up and perches her on her hip.
“And I got certified soon after. We always figured, eventually we’d foster to adopt.” Beca adds.
The social worker smiles and nods. “Sure, I’ll pull your files and put in an order.”
Six Months Later
“Beca! Chloe!” Finley comes rushing up to them, cheeks tinged pink from the cold October morning. “Did you see me? I swung so high!”
Chloe grins and cups the little girl’s cheek as she leans into Chloe’s legs. “I saw, baby. You swung so high, I thought maybe you’d take off!”
Finley giggles and steps back. “You’re silly, Chloe.”
Beca watches the two of them in amusement, her heart feeling light and full all at once. “I bet I could totally go higher than you.” She says with a grin.
Finely steps back and places her hands on her hips. “Prove it!” She races off toward the swings again, with Beca hot on her heels.
Chloe grins wide when Beca catches up with Finley and scoops her up to throw her over her shoulder, the little girl giggling like crazy. Chloe goes to follow them, when her cell goes off. Without checking the caller ID, she answers.
The voice on the other end congratulates, because they’ve been approved. Chloe stops breathing for a second, heart racing.
“Th-thank you, so, much.” She says with a watery smile. She hangs up and starts toward the two. “Beca!” When Beca looks toward her, Chloe beams. “We were approved!”
Suddenly Beca is holding Finley above her head and spinning. “You hear that, kiddo!? You’re going to officially be a Mitchell-Beale!” And then Beca brings her back down and hugs her tight.
Finley pulls back, eyes wide and smile bright. “So– so, now you’re my moms?”
Chloe’s heart trips over itself at that, her arms wrapping around them both as she reaches them. “We’re whatever you want us to be, little bug.”
Finley smiles something bashful and glances down. “If it’s okay, I’d like you to be my moms.”
“Then, we’re your moms.” Beca says through a few traitorous tears.
Chloe feels so giddy, that she can’t help but squeeze them both, causing Finley to laugh. “Too tight, Mama, can’t breathe!”
Chloe thinks her heart has grown three times it’s size at Finley’s words. Her eyes fill with tears and she loosens her grip only to lean forward and smack a kiss to Finley’s cheek. “I’m sorry, little bug. I’m just so happy.”
Finley smiles brightly at Chloe and wraps her arms around Beca’s neck. “Me, too, moms.” 
Chloe meets Beca’s watery gaze, taking in her wife’s watery smile and knowing she feels the exact same way. Swallowing her tears, Chloe gently pokes Finley’s nose. “Didn’t you two have some sort of challenge to settle?”
Finley’s eyes widen and she wriggles to get down. “C’mon, mom. I’m gonna prove that I can swing higher!”
“I’ll be there in a sec, kid.” Beca calls after her. She then turns to cup Chloe’s cheeks and kisses her. “I love you, Chlo.”
Chloe smiles something bright and happy. “I love you too, Becs.”
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