#and as someone now seen as a man there's also this abrupt social shift where

[citrineghost]

I think about this a lot...

I just want you all to know, even if you don't see any people in your area with pronoun pins or bright, queer clothing, or with clockable traits, there's a very good chance you're surrounded by queer people who are blending in with the cishets. You're not alone.

Ever since I've started passing, I've had this repeated thought... I'll be in a public place and I'll see someone who's almost definitely queer, and it makes my day, but then I wonder, do they see me? Do they know I'm here? Do they understand that I'm one of them?

To be passing is what a lot of trans people see as the end goal, but, if you're not trying to be stealth but simply not going out of your way to display that you're queer, it can come with a profound sense of sudden exclusion - like you're too passing to count anymore, or like you'll be unrecognizable to your queer siblings

So, for everyone's benefit, I just want to say, remember that there are those of us who don't stand out. Don't assume every person that you don't clock as trans is cis. Don't assume every person that you don't clock as gay is straight. We speak out against cisheteronormativity, but to protect ourselves and remain in the safe bubble of those we expect to be safe for ourselves, we are often times perpetuating it

#i feel like this comes across as a humble brag but i really genuinely don't mean for it to be #this thought has genuinely come to me multiple times and given me a profound sense of queer loneliness #and as someone now seen as a man there's also this abrupt social shift where #i can't just tell a woman her perfume smells nice anymore without it being creepy #i can't compliment a woman's clothes anymore without it coming across as hitting on her #I've been disconnected from not just the publicly obvious queer community but also the community i grew up comfortable relating to #I'm not seen as one of the girls anymore which is good in most regards #but devastating in others #because as a gay guy i feel like there's community there that's hard to access now #i could try to be more flamboyant and obvious but i don't want to force anything that doesn't come naturally to me #and I'm too scared to re-enter that spotlight of queerness by wearing a pin or something #maybe this whole thing is stupid and whiny when I'm just being a coward #maybe i should wear a pin and rejoin the ranks of publicly noticeable queers #i feel like this whole post is just me ignoring a privilege that a lot of people would kill for #but i guess I'll post it anyway #you can join me on my thought journey #queer #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtqia #gay #trans #ftm

[potterbite]

i can only be me with you

After one of Buck’s heroics spreads all over the news, Eddie finally sees what happened above ground when he was trapped almost a year before. 

On AO3.

As Buck and the team hops out of the firetruck, the rest of the station starts applauding; some are early for their shift that’s about to start, others preparing to head home. About twelve of fifteen people are just standing there, grinning at Buck.

“What - ?” Buck begins, looking to the others for some confirmation that they know what this is about. However, they all seem just as confused as he feels.

As the applauds die down, Bobby speaks up.

“What was that about?”

One of the women on the upcoming shift grins. “It’s gone viral.”

“What has?”

“The video from earlier today of Buck jumping out of that window to save the little girl.”

Oh. 

At this, Hen and Chim laugh while Eddie gives him a nudge on the shoulder, muttering, “Now you’re just like Firefox.”

-----

The thing is, it’s not like he had the time to think it through before jumping out of the window on the eight floor; it was all instinct, seeing that little girl fall through it with nobody else close by to help her. But on some level, he knew he still had the harness around his middle and he trusted his team enough to fully believe they would catch that rope before it was too late.

So he flew through the crashed window barely two seconds after the screaming five year old and caught her around the waist; she was so stunned she paused her screaming. They came to an abrupt stop at the fourth floor, hanging like a couple of ragdolls, and he could’ve sworn he heard someone from up above swear loudly in spanish. 

But it’s not like he thought that someone might be filming it all and uploading it to every social media plattform known to mankind or that it would be on all the big news channels less than six hours later. 

He won’t lie, he kind of likes it. But he’s still exhausted by the time he pulls the key out of the ignition in the driveway. He leans his head back and closes his eyes; his phone is finally quiet, blissfully so, after ringing every three minutes since he finished work four hours ago. Granted, he did turn off sound and vibration so the quiet might be thanks to that but he doesn’t dare to look and check for number of missed calls in the last thirty minutes.

A rapt knock on the driver window makes him jump, the top of his head hitting the roof of the car with a thump and his legs slamming into the steering wheel.  

He curses in pain, but still hears the muffled laughter; he flips the other person off. 

“Nice one,” Eddie comments as he opens the car door. Buck just grunts in response, shaking his legs a couple of times as he climbs out. 

“Don’t sneak up on a person like that.”

Eddie raises both eyebrows. “You’re sitting in my driveway. Chris heard you and wanted me to check you weren’t a murderer.”

Buck grins at this. “And he made you go alone?”

“I didn’t say it was logical. Now come on, dinner is almost ready.”

At least three or four times a week, Buck goes over to the Diaz house for dinner and to hang out with two of his favorite people. Also, ever since Eddie broke it off with Ana a few weeks back, Buck’s been afraid that Eddie might feel lonely. Whenever he asks about her though, Eddie doesn’t say much about the break up, only that it had been amicable and then he always gets this tinge of red on his cheeks that Buck absolutely does not find cute. 

“Hey kiddo!” Buck calls out as they enter the house through the kitchen door.

“Bucky! You’re on TV,” Chris replies and Buck sighs, standing next to Eddie by the counter. 

“I can’t look at that shit anymore,” he murmurs and the other man smirks.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, being a celebrity?”

“I - “ 

“Bucky! Come see, they’re showing when you tried to save Dad, too,” Chris calls and well, Buck isn’t sure but it would seem his entire stomach flips at these words. 

Eddie goes still, a frown on his face. “What’s he talking about?”

Buck will absolutely not blush. “Probably just heard him wrong.”

“Dad! It’s really cool when Bucky screams like that, come see!”

Buck straightens. “He really shouldn’t be allowed to watch the news by himself, I’ll go put a movie on.”

He takes big strides towards the living room, but before he makes it all the way Eddie swishes past him as if he’s got wings. Eddie picks up the remote and rewinds a couple of minutes. And honestly, for a man claiming he hates technology, Eddie really loves that smartTV, even though he didn’t even know he could rewind until Buck showed him (something he regrets now). 

It’s not like Buck is ashamed of how he reacted that day when the ground collapsed on top of Eddie. Not really. It’s more that it feels like a pandora’s box he’s only ever opened on that day and he’s now deathly afraid of what will happen when he peeks under the lid again. 

But what can he do except stand there behind the couch next to Eddie and watch as the other man finds the right moment and press play? 

“Yes! Let’s watch it over and over again,” Chris claps. Buck ruffles a hand over his hair in response and the boy giggles.

“When was - ?” Eddie starts, but then he seems to recognize the farm. “Oh.”

In silence, they listen to the news anchor saying what a good guy Evan Buckley is and how he lost it when one of his own team members went under. There’s a drone shot from the moment of the collapse. A close-up on Buck’s face as he screams, and Bobby scooping him up.

Buck had known there were news teams there, of course, but he hadn’t realized they’d gotten him on camera as well. He’d ignored all reports from that day, preferring to not think about all the thousand things that could’ve gone wrong, so he’s never seen this before. But obviously, Eddie hasn’t either given the way he stares open mouthed at the screen. 

When he turns his head to look at Buck, Buck just shrugs sheepishly at him.

“That was so cool, right dad?” Chris grins, and Buck sees Eddie’s face soften. 

“Yeah, it was.” He looks up and meets Buck’s eyes for the fraction of a second and there’s another jolt in Buck’s stomach. “Time for dinner.”

-----

They don’t talk about what they saw on the news for the entire dinner or during the movie. 

Well, Chris does bring it up one time when he turns to Buck and asks, “Would you scream like that if I disappeared too?” with honesty only a child can muster. Buck doesn’t really know what to say to this so he grins and promises that he sure would. 

But even though Eddie acts normal, Buck can feel it in the air or when their eyes meet. It’s as if Eddie is screaming to say something but doesn’t want to in front of his son. Buck has no idea what that would be, because there’s no way Eddie could tell from those fast glimpses what really went on inside his head. The repeated mantra of ‘not him, not him, not him’ was not seen in his eyes, he’s sure of that.

If it were, Eddie would’ve caught on earlier. Maybe when he, Eddie, started dating Ana. Or when he broke it off with her. That fire inside of Buck’s soul dimming and glowing stronger was not visible through his eyes, because that would mean he’d lose his best friend. And that was not an option. 

But he’s still nervous when it’s time for Chris to sleep; is this the last time he’ll say goodnight to Chris like this? So when the boy takes Buck’s hand and says, “Can you do it instead of Dad?” he does. Eddie stays in the doorway to Chris’ room, silently watching as Buck tucks the boy in. 

“Buck?” Chris whispers so quietly Buck has to lean forward to hear.

“Yeah?” he whispers back.

Chris reaches for Buck’s face and moves it so he can whisper the words right by his ear. “I think he loves you, too.”

Buck blushes, straightening a bit. “Um, thanks buddy,” he replies, his voice still barely a whisper. He sneaks a glance at Eddie, who thankfully doesn’t appear to have heard the silent conversation. Then louder he adds, “Sleepy time.”

Chris nods happily, and has fallen asleep within three minutes of Buck reading his favorite book. 

As he stands up to leave the room, Eddie enters to give Chris a kiss on the forehead. Buck stays in the living room, not sure if he should take his opportunity to leave or just get this over with so he’ll know if their friendship is ruined or not.  

Before he has made up his mind, Eddie comes out and closes the door behind him. Buck opens his mouth to say something, anything, when Eddie meets his eyes and Buck sucks in a breath. 

“I’ve never seen that before,” Eddie says. Buck doesn’t even question what ‘that’ is, since he can only be talking about the video of Buck screaming at the top of his lungs. 

“No,” Buck says stupidly. “I suppose not.”

“I wish I had though.”

“Oh?” Buck isn’t at all sure where this conversation is going, but for some reason Eddie keeps moving closer to him, so he has no choice but to lean against the wall. 

“Yeah.” Almost chest to chest.

Buck licks his lips and swallows. His stomach does another flip then, because Eddie most certainly followed that movement with his eyes. 

“Why?” Buck asks even though he has difficulties concentrating when all he can think about is if Eddie can feel the beating of his heart when their chests are touching like this. 

“‘cause we could’ve done this much sooner,” he replies and surges up for a kiss. 

Buck gasps, and he can feel the smirk against his own lips. So as soon as his brain has caught up with what’s happening, he pushes off from the wall and flips them as some kind of revenge. He presses Eddie against it instead which makes him groans, and as his lips open Buck takes advantage of that and sneaks inside. 

As they battle together and Eddie’s fingers caress his neck, Buck nudges his thigh in between Eddie’s legs and gets another groan in appreciation; Buck savors that vibration as if he’s starving. 

He feels as if they should slow down, talk about what’s happening, why neither of them has said anything and what’s going to happen next. But then Eddie bites gently in his lower lip, making him moan and Eddie swallows the sound greedily. 

As if it’s the most natural thing in the entire world, he starts to back Eddie into the master bedroom, closing the door with his foot once they are inside.

What the hell, they can talk tomorrow instead. 

#buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #my writing

[jeongyunhoed]

8 Stories, 8 Movies from the Golden Age (1930s to 1960s).

It’s the golden age and 8 men are the most sought-after actors in Hollywood. Lights, camera, action!

A tale of love and suspense, Park Seonghwa is haunted by the memory of his deceased wife, a shadow looming over the halls of his mansion. When he marries again, his new wife now comes to realize that even in death, his wife still remains. 

Daphne

Warnings: Mentions of murder, death, suicide, and illness. Might have some innuendos, might not. But I’m putting these warnings out there regardless. 

Other things to note: There are OCs. I might mention other idols (most likely NCT). 

A/N: This is the first series of 8, and broken into three parts. Tag list is open if anyone is interested. Enjoy. 

Masterlist

Part 1 

An overcast day at a resort. She managed to get away from the crowds of men in suits and women snootily drinking cups of coffee and tea, among those women being her employer, Mrs. Oh. She walked along the pathways, sketchbook and pencils tucked under her arm as she admired the perfectly manicured gardens. She had been here before, they always made it a point to come back every now and then, mostly for her employer to rub elbows with the elite. That didn’t interest her much. She preferred the simpler things and was more than content with her situation, save for her employer herself. 

From a slight distance, she could see a figure standing near the edge of the cliff. It was a man, tall and lean and fashionably dressed with jet-black hair and his hands were in the pockets of his trousers. She stopped in her place, observing what he was doing. He seemed to be looking over the cliff a little too closely, almost as if he was about to jump off. 

“No! Don’t do it!” She yelled, hurrying towards him. 

The man turned around. He was incredibly handsome yet his expression only betrayed confusion. “Excuse me?” 

She paused. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just because you were standing way too close to the edge, I thought you were about to-” 

“Jump off?” He said. “I wasn’t going to jump off. What are you doing here?”

“I was only walking by when I saw you and I-” 

“Then keep walking.”  

“Sorry,” She muttered, feeling the embarrassment sink in. He passed by her without another word. He looked troubled, and she was certain that if he wasn’t thinking of jumping off, he seemed to be thinking of something else that was just as sad, or as his expression was, troubling. She watched him get in his car and drive away. She turned to go back down the path where she came from, figuring that Mrs. Oh was probably yelling for her already, or at least sending a waiter to look for her. 

That was her life, a paid companion to an aging socialite or as what many might have bluntly described it, caregiver. Of course, she also knew Mrs. Oh would never dare use the more direct term, as it would only imply that she was getting too old and that she couldn’t keep up with her peers, both young and those of her age. 

By the time she arrived, she saw Mrs. Oh already sitting by the door, sipping coffee and helping herself with a few biscuits from the tin on the table. She sat down across from her employer. 

“I don’t think I’d want to come back here after the peak season. There’s hardly a single well-known person in this place,” Mrs. Oh frowned, putting her cup down. “This coffee’s gotten cold, waiter!” She raised her hand to try and get a server’s attention. 

“I don’t think they can hear you,” She replied. 

“Then make yourself useful, will you? What are you being paid for?” Mrs. Oh said, almost gesturing for her to get up from her seat until she stopped, her eyes lighting up like a wolf having seen its prey. “Oh my, that’s Park Seonghwa, look, he’s coming this way,” She gestured for her to look over. 

Her eyes widened slightly when she saw the same man she saw earlier by the cliff now coming towards them. Mrs. Oh knew him, and she figured it wasn’t surprising that she did, from the way he was dressed and the air about him as he approached them. “What are you looking so surprised for?” Mrs. Oh asked her, having noticed her expression. 

“Nothing, I just-I just saw him earlier on my walk,” She said quietly. 

Mrs. Oh ignored her. “Mr. Park Seonghwa! How do you do? I’m Mrs. Oh, do sit down and have some coffee,” She held her hand out to him and Seonghwa gently shook it. “You can go now, Mr. Park and I will have coffee.” 

As soon as she was about to get up, Seonghwa shook his head. “I think you’re mistaken,” He glanced at her. “Both of you should have coffee with me,” He stopped a waiter that was passing by. “Excuse me, I’d like three coffees at this table.” 

The waiter nodded and walked off, and Seonghwa sat down across from them. She felt his gaze from time to time and the more she couldn’t help but look back, the more she noticed how handsome he really was. Yet, there was also a kind look to him, a big shift from his troubled aura earlier. 

“I recognized you just as soon as you came in. So, how are you enjoying your stay here, Mr. Park? I assume you’ve been playing the tables at the nearby casino? You must be very good at baccarat,” Mrs. Oh said, her voice dripping with sweetness that it almost made her a little sick. 

Seonghwa smiled, thanking the waiter for bringing over the pot and pouring coffee for them before walking off. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten bored of those games,” He answered, taking a sip. 

“I don’t blame you one bit. If I lived in a place like the Fontaine, I would never really come here anyway,” Mrs. Oh replied with a high-pitched chuckle that she reserved when talking to someone in her social circle in public. “I heard it’s one of the biggest places in the country.” 

“Would you like some more coffee?” Seonghwa sat up, one hand already holding the pot and poised to pour. 

“Oh yes, thank you, Mr. Park,” Mrs. Oh smiled, as the man poured some in her cup. 

“And you?” Seonghwa turned to her. “Would you like some more coffee?” He asked. 

“Oh, n-no thank you, I’m fine,” She managed to say. 

“How are you enjoying this place? Or aren’t you enjoying it?” He asked, his tone was a lot softer this time. 

She felt her cheeks heat up. “It’s slightly artificial, at least to me,” She muttered, putting her cup down. 

Mrs. Oh side-eyed her. “Girls her age, spoiled, aren’t they? Anyone would give their eyes just to be able to come here.” 

“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?” Seonghwa smiled from behind his cup and she couldn’t help but purse her lips to stifle a laugh. 

“Are you staying here very long? Now that we’ve found each other again, I hope we do see each other a lot here,” Mrs. Oh asked him. 

“No I’m not, I’m afraid,” He replied. “Are you?” 

“We’re staying quite a bit, yes,” Mrs. Oh replied. “Maybe she can make herself useful and help you with your bags.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of those either. I’ve always said, he who travels fast tends to travel alone, you probably haven’t heard of it, excuse me,” Seonghwa put his cup down, got up and walked off. 

The two of them exchanged looks, Mrs. Oh looking particularly taken aback by his abrupt departure. She helped her stand, handing over her cane that she had leaning by the chair. “Well, what do you make of that?” She muttered. “...Was he intending to be funny? He must not have realized-” 

She led Mrs. Oh to the elevator, glancing back every now and then in case he was still around. The doors opened. “Going up?” The elevator operator asked, and they nodded, Mrs. Oh still trying to make sense of what just happened. 

“He probably mustn’t have realized it, poor thing. He’s probably still trying to cope with his wife’s death,” Mrs. Oh said as they got in. “They said he simply adored her.” 

~ 

She went to sleep that night thinking of her unusual encounter with Seonghwa. It seemed too good to be true what happened the previous day. He told her off one moment, he was having coffee with her the next. Even with his shift in mood, she found him charming, and it wasn’t at all surprising knowing that he was once off the market. But knowing that he was once married and now a widower as Mrs. Oh had said, made her think that men like him don’t usually hang around with girls of her sort. 

Leaving Mrs. Oh to eat her lunch the next day, she brought her sketchbook and pencils to go on another walk along the path, partly hoping that she would see him again. She entered the hotel’s restaurant, making a beeline for the table that only seated one person and as she sat down, she accidentally knocked over the small vase of flowers on the table. Water spilled out and she got up, flustered and trying her hardest to clean it up before the water could flow out any further. “Oh I’m so sorry,” She apologized profusely, while a few waiters gathered around the small puddle to try and clear up. 

As she stood back up, clearing herself from the mess, she saw Seonghwa, seated at the next table. “You can leave that, you can join me here at my table,” He said to her, standing up as if to greet her and gestured to the empty seat across from him. 

“That’s-that’s very kind of you but I couldn’t-” 

“I wasn’t trying to be polite,” Seonghwa pointed out. “I should’ve already asked you to join me earlier if I knew you were that clumsy, but even if you weren’t, I’d still have invited you. Come, have lunch with me instead,” He said. “We don’t need to talk to each other if we don’t feel like it.” 

He was unlike anyone she had ever met, and it fascinated her all the more as she accepted his offer, carefully seating herself down at his table. It almost felt like she wasn’t worthy yet she couldn’t refuse his offer any more than she did the first time. “Thank you.” 

“Where’s your friend?” He asked. 

“She’s having her lunch in her room. She came down with a cold last night,” She replied. 

“I’m sorry for my rudeness yesterday,” Seonghwa said. “I don’t have much of an excuse but that I guess I’ve become a little more standoffish since I’ve been living on my own at the Fontaine,” He explained. “Is Mrs. Oh a relation to you? Or is she just a friend?”

“No, she’s my employer,” She said quietly. “I’m what you call a paid companion.” 

“I didn’t know companionship could be bought,” Seonghwa looked down at his cup of coffee. “Are you going out to sketch again?” He said. 

“Yes, yes I was,” She nodded, glancing at the thick book and the pencil case at the side of their table. 

“Where are you planning to go?” He asked. 

“I-I don’t know yet.” 

“I could drive you in my car,” Seonghwa offered. 

“That’s very kind of you, but-” 

“I insist,” Seonghwa reached over, his hand on top of hers. “Let me drive you around, you’ll get to a place you might like much faster.” 

She felt her heart pound at the contact. She was finding it hard to look him in the eye yet she could see from her peripheral vision that he was smiling. If he smiled at her any longer, she might’ve already fallen in love, and she had a feeling that she was going to. 

~ 

The drive outside the hotel and around the scenic parts of the resort was quiet between them. Even when Seonghwa was at the wheel, she couldn’t help but admire his features, and the calm look on his face as he steered, slowing down every now and then in front of spots that he felt she might like. She felt like Cinderella, being taken around by a handsome prince. Cinderella with a sketchbook in hand, she thought as they finally stopped at the spot she preferred. If anything, she’d want to sketch him instead of the view. 

She brought out her pencils and flipped her sketchbook open as she sat on the bench overlooking the view of the ocean. She noticed Seonghwa get out of the car as well, pacing back and forth at the side as the wind hit their faces. The troubled look on his face had returned, and it made her cross out the drawing she already had in front of her and turn the page over to a fresh one. 

“A perfectionist?” Seonghwa suddenly asked her, having observed her this whole time. 

“You’re not exactly a very easy subject,” She admitted. “Your expression keeps changing.”

Seonghwa looked a little surprised. “Wouldn’t it be better that you draw the view instead of me? The view out here is a lot nicer,” He said. 

She didn’t argue, and instead started sketching the waves that crashed against the rocks and the sky. She didn’t want to keep him waiting, and she paused, noticing that he was staring at the boat that was tied next to the rocks. It was making her curious as to what he was thinking and why he looked as troubled as he did, especially whenever he was looking out at the sea. 

“I went on vacation in this seaside village once,” She tried to keep up the conversation again. “I was at the souvenir shop when I saw a postcard that had a very big, very beautiful house on it,” She recalled. “I asked whose house it is and they said it’s the Fontaine.” 

“Yes, the Fontaine is beautiful, to everyone,” Seonghwa mumbled, sounding grim. “To me it’s just the place I was born in and the place I’ve lived in all my life.”

She sensed that there was something with the way he said it. She looked over at her drawing. It was of him, standing at the side, his handsome side profile prominent against the backdrop of the ocean. “Well, at least we came here when the weather is good, right? At least the weather is good here at this time of the year. The water’s warm, I could stay here all day,” She said. “It’s terrible when it rains, I heard a man drowned here last year, but I’m not really afraid of drowning, are you?” 

Seonghwa’s expression changed, from slightly troubled to even more so. “Why did you say that?” 

“I- Did I say something offensive? I didn’t mean to, Mr. Park,” She said. 

“Let’s go, I’ll take you home.” 

He passed by her again without another word, this time to go back to the car where he sat in the driver’s seat. She glanced over at him. She felt the need to apologize, yet there seemed to be no point in doing it. It made her remember what Mrs. Oh said about him. Seonghwa must still be grieving over his wife’s death. 

She returned to their suite at the hotel a little while later, still trying to process the definite shift in mood earlier. As she removed her shoes and jacket, she overheard Mrs. Oh talking to someone on the phone. 

“Yes, yes, I knew him well. I knew his wife too,” Mrs. Oh said. “She was the beautiful Daphne Yoo, you know. The most glamorous woman in this part of the world. She drowned, poor thing, while she was sailing near the Fontaine, god bless her soul.” 

It hit her. There it was, the reason why Seonghwa got upset. 

~ 

The days after that seemed like a blur to her, as they spent mornings driving around, taking the scenic routes. It was Seonghwa’s suggestion, that she spend hours in a day away from Mrs. Oh at a time, but she didn’t complain. She wouldn’t have it any other way when it came to him. He was really like a prince, mood swings and all. Every time he was near, she felt her heart pound, and her cheeks would heat up whenever his hand touched hers and it made her wonder how on Earth did she get the chance to spend time with someone as prominent as Park Seonghwa. 

“Sometimes I wish someone invented a machine that could bottle up a memory like how you do with perfume,” She mused as they looked out at the view from the car. “So whenever I wanted to revisit a memory, I’d just open it.” 

“What kind of moment would you like to keep?” Seonghwa turned to her, a small smile on his face as he turned the engine on and began to drive. 

“These-these last few days,” She said, a dreamy sigh escaping her. 

“Those bottles can sometimes hold demons that have their ways of popping out at you just when you’re desperate to forget about them,” He muttered. 

“Of course, of course,” She nodded. 

“Stop biting your nails,” He suddenly said. 

It made her sit up and put her hand down. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was,” She said quietly. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Park? Why did you ask me to come out here with you? I know you want to be kind, but why did you think of choosing me for your charity?” 

Seonghwa slowed down on the gas. “I asked you to come out with me because I wanted your company,” He said. “You’ve somehow blotted out the past for me more than all the lights in this place, but if you think I just asked you out of kindness or charity, you can get out and walk home instead,” He snapped as he stopped the car and pulled over. 

Before she knew it, hot tears were streaming down her face and she looked down, not wanting Seonghwa to see her cry. But he did, and his expression fell upon realizing what he said. “I’m-I’m sorry, I’m sorry for snapping at you like this, I didn’t mean to, it just came out,” He took the handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Wipe your eyes, blow your nose,” He murmured. 

“Thank you, Mr. Park,” She said, wiping the tears away from her face. 

“Please don’t call me Mr. Park,” He said. “Seonghwa, just Seonghwa. Sometimes my family calls me Mars.” 

The nickname made her chuckle in the midst of wiping her eyes. “That’s a cute nickname.” 

“I’m glad you think so,” He said. “Hwaseong, Seonghwa. Just call me Seonghwa, or Mars, whichever one you prefer.”��

“Okay,” She paused. “Seonghwa.” 

“But I did mean what I said, that I wanted your company, in fact I enjoy your company very much,” He admitted. “Can I ask you something this time?” He said, turning in his seat to face her. 

“Yes” She said. 

“I really want to kiss you, may I?” Seonghwa asked. 

She stopped, having wiped off what she hoped was the last tear that rolled down her face. She felt her heart soar, the butterflies in her stomach fluttering, and relief that he looked at her in that way. “Yes you may, Seonghwa.” 

He leaned in, pressing his lips on hers. 

~ 

She felt like she was on cloud nine, still in disbelief that a man like Seonghwa, Park Seonghwa, would take an interest in her. But she would later be presented with a rude awakening in the morning, when Mrs. Oh told her that they were leaving to go overseas. Just when she was going to be with Seonghwa that they had to leave. She had to tell him the news. She knocked on the door.

“Come in!” She heard him say, and she opened it, carefully stepping inside. 

Seonghwa was in his robe, his black hair slightly tousled but it only made him more handsome. “Hello” She said, wondering how she could break it to him. 

“What brings you here?” He asked, approaching her and enveloping her in an embrace. 

“I’ve come here to say goodbye, Seonghwa,” She said. “We’re leaving now.” 

Seonghwa pulled away, staring at her. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s true, we’re going now, and I’m-I was afraid I wasn’t going to see you again so I had to come here and tell you,” She said, her hands clasped in his. 

“Where is Mrs. Oh taking you to?” He asked, his voice laced with concern. 

“Overseas. New York, to be exact,” She looked down. “I know I’ll hate it. I’ll be miserable knowing I won’t get to see you.” 

Seonghwa squeezed her hand, catching a glimpse of himself at the mirror. “I’ll just finish getting ready. I won’t be long,” He said, pulling away completely and walking into the bathroom. 

“But I can’t stay much longer,” She said. 

“Can I ask you something? Which would you prefer, New York or the Fontaine?” He suddenly asked, his voice muffled from behind the slightly open bathroom door. 

She sighed. “Don’t joke about it. Mrs. Oh is waiting and I-I should probably say goodbye now.” 

“I’ll say it again,” Seonghwa peeked over. “Either you go to New York with Mrs. Oh or you come home to the Fontaine with me.” 

She stared at the sliver of his face, watching him finish brushing his teeth. “You mean you want an assistant or something?” She asked. 

“I’m asking you to marry me.” 

Her eyes widened at the sudden proposal. “Marry you?” 

Seonghwa returned, wiping his mouth with a hand towel. He approached her. “What do you think?” He looked into her eyes, as if trying to search for an answer in the way she looked at him. “Well, I guess my suggestion was a little too sudden, wasn’t it? I’m sorry for springing that onto you.” 

She shook her head. “No, no, I know what you said, it’s just, I don’t think I’m the sort of person men marry.” 

He tilted his head in slight confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, it’s just- I don’t belong in your world,” She looked down slightly, avoiding his gaze. 

“What kind of world do you think I live in?” Seonghwa took her hands in his. 

“The Fontaine, well, you know what I mean,” She admitted, squeezing his hands. She didn’t want to let go. 

“Shouldn’t I decide whether you belong in my world or not?” Seonghwa let go of one hand to tilt her chin up. “Of course, if you don’t love me, that’s something else entirely.” 

“I do love you,” She said. “I love you very much. I was crying all morning because I thought I wouldn’t be able to see you again.” 

Seonghwa smiled and cupped her face. “I’ll have to remind you of this one day, and you won’t believe me. Is it a yes?” 

“Yes,” She nodded. “I’ll marry you,” and he kissed her. 

~ 

She knew Mrs. Oh wasn’t going to take the news of her sudden engagement to Seonghwa well, at least as well as she would expect. In front of Seonghwa, she displayed the smile she knew all too well from her years working for her. It was the smile of someone who absolutely hated what was going on. 

When the two of them were alone, Mrs. Oh’s expression fell. “But of course you know why he’s marrying someone like you, don’t you?” She asked. “The empty house got on his nerves, he didn’t want to go on living on his own. Did you really think he actually loves you? He was married to Daphne Yoo, the most beautiful and the most cultured woman in this part of the world? Well goodbye, and good luck,” She turned to leave. “Mrs. Park.” 

#kdiner #ateez #ateez fic #ateez au #seonghwa #park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa

[rainydaydream-gal18]

Dignity & Disposition

(Author’s Note(s):  I struggle publishing Sherlock fics because as a Christian I blatantly disagree with his statements about God on the show and find it insulting actually.  I love Jesus!  He has saved me and worked in my life as well as those around me! 

 I otherwise enjoy the show Sherlock and enjoy writing fics with his character.

Someone told me they appreciated my last fic, and not sure if they’d like to be named, but I hope they enjoy it!  You know who you are!

Just a warning, this is kind of a long fic.  About six pages in my doc, soooo be prepared! It is riddled with Pride & Prejudice references, hence the title.  Also, side note, I could see Benedict playing a pretty good Mr. Darcy...  Enjoy!)

  His piercing gaze filled you with warmth as his lips parted to recite the words you were so ready to hear.  “I love you, most ardently… Please do me the honor of accepting my hand.”  His voice was deep.  It had a calming effect, and yet was still unsettling in such a good way.

  Your eyes remained locked with his as you responded.  “Sir,” you stated, breathless.  “I appreciate the struggle you have been through, and I am very sorry to have caused you pain.  Believe me, it was unconsciously done.”

  His brows furrowed. “Is this your reply?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Are you...are you laughing at me?”

  “No.”

  “Are you rejecting me?”

  Just then, the moment you had so persistently rehearsed was interrupted by footsteps up the stairs.  It was none other than John Watson who entered the room, looking rather bewildered.  He looked at you, then Sherlock.

  “Am I...interrupting something?” he inquired, brows raised incredulously.

  “Yes,” you and Sherlock chorused.

  “Is this what I think it is?”  He shifted his stance. 

  “I was cast as the part of Elizabeth Bennet for a Pride and Prejudice short film that a friend of mine is working on,” you informed him with a smile.  “Sherlock was helping me rehearse.”

  “Oh,” John stated.  His mouth opened wide as he gave a nod of understanding.  “Right, I thought this dialogue sounded familiar.  For a split second there, it looked like…Nevermind.”

  You rolled your eyes, though felt warmth in your face at the implication that this could have been an actual confession of love from the consulting detective.

  As if, you thought to yourself.

  It was true, you were merely rehearsing.  However, the part of it that you couldn’t believe was that Sherlock actually volunteered to assist you after you entered the flat worrying aloud about your performance later.  There’d be a camera crew and everything, though a small one.  Sherlock claimed that your worrying was distracting from his latest case, so he agreed to go over the lines with you a few times until you felt more comfortable.

  As much as you wanted to read into the thoughtful gesture, you decided to just take his word for it: he was just trying to get you quiet to refocus on the case.  He was Sherlock Holmes, after all.  He was no romantic like Mr. Darcy, swooping in to save your honor and gain your affection.

  John’s confusion seemed to be replaced with an amused curiosity.  He took a seat and looked at you, smiling.  “Well, go on then.  Don’t stop on my account.”

  You looked at him and sighed.  “Really, John?  I feel awkward as it is.”

  “You’re doing this for a film, right?  Why not do it in front of a friend first?”

  You sighed again, but turned your eyes back to the script in hand.  “Okay, well, Sherlock, if you don’t mind.  Let’s move onto the next section.”

  “Indeed,” he nodded, flipping the page.

  As you picked up on the next conversation between Elizabeth and Darcy, you couldn’t help but notice how well Sherlock played the part.  He could be awkward and quiet and appear prideful.  He was arrogant like Mr. Darcy seemed to be at first, but just like the book character your friend was often misunderstood.  Only when one got to know him did they realize that he was merely socially awkward.  Okay, and also still a tad arrogant.

  After the scene was complete, John clapped. "You're going to be great, ___________."

 "I sure hope so," you replied. "I just hope I don't freeze in front of the camera."

 "Stage fright is quite common," Sherlock muttered.  "You've faced many strange situations and villains while working with me and John.  I am sure you can overcome this.  If you should feel overwhelmed in the moment, imagine you are rehearsing here in 221b."

  Sherlock Holmes giving you a pep talk?

  He set down the script and returned to the table where his case files were scattered about, just as he had left them before.  You looked at John questioningly, and he only returned with a pointed look and amused smile. You had both known Sherlock for quite some time, but even so he could be confusing.

               ----

  Later that day, you met up with your friend to begin the filming process. This was only part one of four, each part being filmed on a separate day.  By the end of the week, she'd have everything she needed to edit it together for her university project. It was more of an educational film for younger students to better understand the themes of Jane Austen's story, with you acting out major scenes to show character development and to demonstrate these themes.

  So far, it was going well. There were a few times where you feared you'd forget a line or got distracted, but you pictured in your mind reciting the lines to Sherlock instead of the stranger in front of you.  It wasn't that the man playing Mr. Darcy was doing anything wrong. There was simply a lack of chemistry.  However, you didn't want to dwell on that too long because it brought up the possibility of you feeling chemistry with Sherlock. There was no way. Anything you felt had to be because of how surprisingly well he got into character. You'd seen him do it on cases when he was undercover. He could throw on a different expression and speak in a tone to feign emotion. It was important to remind yourself that when you started to get swept away with these strange feelings that you'd been fighting long before this project.

  "____________?" The Mr. Darcy actor in front of you (what was his name? Brody?) waved his hand in front of you.  "Everything alright?"

  "Oh um yes," you nodded. "I'm sorry, where were we?"

  "Actually, we're about to wrap things up!" Your friend, Emma, interjected.  "Go ahead and get out of costume, Brady." She turned to the rest of the people in the group.  "Thanks everyone! It's been a good day."

  You waved at Brady as he walked away, and Emma came over to give you a knowing look.

  “What?” you asked.

  “I know that look.  You’re smitten.  I’m honestly surprised because Brady doesn’t seem like your type.”

  You shrugged.  “Well, that’s because he isn’t.  It’s just that Mr. Darcy’s romantic tendencies would make any girl swoon.”

  “For sure,” she agreed.  “But really, ___________, who were you thinking about?  Is it that dreamy detective you work with?”

  You glanced around as if he would be standing right there.  When the coast was clear, you gave her a look.  “You can’t say stuff like that.  He could be anywhere.  And trust me, there’s nothing developing there.”

  “Oh, _________, you need to relax.  It’s okay to have feelings.”

  “No,” you sighed.  “It’s not.  Not around someone like him, someone who notices everything.”

  “Ohhhhh,” she raised her brows.  “I get it now.”

  You glanced at a clock across the way.  “Wow, would you look at the time?  I need to get back to the flat.  Talk to you tomorrow?”

  She laughed.  “Alright, I’ll let you off the hook this time.  See you tomorrow for filming!”

  You waved and hurried off to call a taxi. 

  There you sat, in a stylish yet comfortable nightgown.  John was sitting across the way typing up a blog entry while you indulged in a book.  It was a relaxing night in the flat.  Sherlock was out, most likely gathering information for a case.  It was nice to catch up on some reading since there hadn’t been much time lately.  John excused himself to the loo.  With the click-clack of his keyboard absent, the room was silent for a few minutes.

  Suddenly, the door flew open.  Sherlock rushed into the room, causing a gust of air to rustle some papers on the table next to you.  You had learned not to pay him any mind when he was running around solving cases, but his entrance was more abrupt than usual, so you peeked up from your book to see him standing there a few feet away.  He was already looking at you, and so your eyes met.

  “Hey, Sherlock,” you greeted with a smile.  “How’s it going?”

  He was silent for a few moments before finally responding.  “Fine.  It’s going fine.”

  You gave a slow, confused nod.  “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  He shook his head.  “No.”

  “Should I ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Okay…”  You watched him stare at you for a good thirty or so seconds before he turned and headed to his bedroom.  He flew past John who was emerging from the restroom looking rather bewildered.  Sherlock’s door slammed shut behind him.

  “What did you do to poor Sherlock?” John joked, knowing full well it was more likely the other way around.  You shrugged, turning your attention back to the book.

  “I have no idea.”  You felt John’s eyes on you for a while longer, prompting you to give him a look.  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he replied.  “It’s just that Sherlock’s been acting strange lately.  Well, strange for Sherlock.”

  “I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  “Really?  Because I notice it mostly happens around you.”

  You put the book down, curious.  “Like what?”

  “He’s been staring at you an awful lot.  It’s only for a few seconds, but for Sherlock, that’s ages.  He normally pays no mind to the people around him, just evidence.”

  “I don’t know,” you mumbled.

  “Here’s a thought,” John leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands.  “And it’s a crazy one because Sherlock has this no-sentiment rule, but...what if he likes you?”

  You fought the warmth that rushed into your face.  “I think you’re right.  That is a crazy one.”

  “Hear me out.”  John cleared his throat.  “He helped you rehearse for your short film.”

  “He told me he did that so I’d quit worrying and let him work.”

  “Well, think about it.  What does he usually do when people are talking and he needs to think?  He usually just tells everyone to shut up.”

  You nodded.  “He used to do that to me too when I first met him.”

  “But he hasn’t in quite some time.  Instead of telling you to shut it, he went out of his way to help you.”  John chuckled.

  “So, what?  Am I supposed to swoon because he doesn’t tell me to shut up?”  You laughed.  “This is ridiculous, John.”

  “I’m just saying,” he continued.  “I think he has grown to like you, even if he is terrible at expressing it.”

  “Well, I guess I do appreciate it.  Even a little.”  You leaned back in the chair.  “It’s still silly.  He’s probably got something else on his mind.”

  “Maybe,” he conceded.  “Maybe give it some time and things will return to normal.”

  The question was; did you want it to return to normal?  John seemed to assume that you didn’t have any interest in the consulting detective, but the fact of the matter was you still had feelings...

  You thought back to how Sherlock appeared to you when you first met him.  He really did seem arrogant.  After getting to know him better, you realized a lot of his conduct was due to being clueless on appropriate social etiquette...Although, some of it was indeed due to arrogance.

  Eventually you warmed up to him, and he seemed to be less obnoxious toward you.

  Was it possible there was more?

  A part of you hoped it was the case, and the other side wanted to bury the thought out of fear that he’d notice and have something to say that you didn’t want to hear.  

-----

  Sherlock seemed to go back to normal.  Or at least, as normal as a crew like that could be with all those cases.  Two days after your conversation with John, you received an upsetting text from Emma.

  “Oh my goodness,” you gasped.  “I cannot believe this.”

  Sherlock’s violin playing ceased, and John poked his head around the corner.

  “What’s wrong?” John asked.  “Was it another theft on that street we were talking about?”

  “No,” you sighed, dropping your phone onto the chair.  “That guy, Brady, who was playing Mr. Darcy decided to quit out of the blue.  We only had a few scenes to go, and now we need to find someone else quickly to re-shoot everything in time for Emma’s project.  We were already set back a few days from unexpected complications.  Emma’s such a good student, and a bad grade would screw up her class.”

  “That’s awful,” John shook his head. 

  “That must be frustrating indeed,” Sherlock agreed quickly, setting down his violin as if he couldn’t care less.  “I am going out.  Hope all works out for you.”  His footsteps disappeared down the stairs, and you sighed.

  “I’ve got to start looking for someone, or else Emma’s grade is in trouble.”

  “Good luck with that, then,” John sympathized.

  You took a look through your contacts to see if there would be anyone else suitable for the role who would have the time to help out.  The search resulted in dashed hopes, and you briefly considered putting out an ad.

  Not minutes later, you received a phone call.

  “Emma?  What’s up?”

  “Hey!  I’ve got a volunteer for the role of Mr. Darcy.  It turns out, there are some shots we took of you alone, so we’ll only need to add a voiceover to those.  There are still a few scenes I need with you and the new Mr. Darcy, so please get your butt down to the square in an hour while we still have light!”

  “That’s great news!”  You exclaimed.  “How’d you find someone so fast?”

  “I’m not supposed to say…  He says he’s a friend of yours.”

  “Oh, I wonder who that is.  Could be Harry.  He made a joke about wanting the role a while back, but I didn’t think he was serious.”

  “I can’t say~” she practically sang into the phone.  “Just get down here!”

  You explained the situation to John and gathered your things with plenty of time to call a cab.  By the time you arrived, Emma and a few of her classmates were getting things set up.

  “Hey,” you said.  “Where’s this replacement?”

  “He said he’d be here any minute now.”

  “I’m here.”  Your heart stopped at Sherlock’s voice joining the conversation.  There he stood, hands in the pockets of his big coat, gazing at you.

  “Thank you for volunteering on such short notice!” Emma told him gratefully.  “We don’t know what we’d do if you hadn’t stepped in.  _____________ and everyone else has been working so hard, and it would have been a shame to cancel or switch projects so quickly.”

  “Yes, well,” Sherlock sighed.  “What do I need to do?”

  “If you’d get in costume, that would be great.”

  Sherlock took the bundle and disappeared in the tent Emma’s classmate set up for costume changing.  You were frozen to the spot as you waited your turn, processing what was happening.

  “But...Sherlock...He…”  You blinked and turned your attention to Emma who shrugged with a huge grin plastered on her face.  She giggled and set to work getting everything else ready.

  When all was taken care of and the actors were lined up, you began filming what scenes were left and re-filming a few shots that Emma needed to complete the video.  You were lost in reciting your lines, and thoroughly impressed by Sherlock’s take on Mr. Darcy.  He really did fit the part well.

  Things became strange when you started filming Mr. Darcy’s second proposal to Lizzy after he rescued her family from humiliation by the younger sister and the awful Mr. Wickham.  Sherlock’s tone softened, and something in his eyes was different.  There was a certain intensity you hadn’t noticed before.

  “...My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

  Before you could say the next line, Sherlock did something unexpected.  He cupped your cheek and brought your face closer to  press his lips to yours.  It was firm, but his kiss was soft.  You were utterly shocked, but instantly reacted to the gesture, bringing your hands up to grasp his shoulders.

  “Wait,”  Emma said.  You heard the sound of pages turning quickly.  “There isn’t a kiss in this scene- oh…”  She giggled.  “Well, well, well.”

  Sherlock pulled away, eyes traveling from your lips to meet your gaze.  Still dazed by his unanticipated actions, you said nothing.  Instead, he spoke first.

  “____________, let me explain.  I set aside sentiment to pursue my work.  It was very easy because I worked alone.  Then, you and John came into the picture and insisted on becoming my friends.  You both saw past my exterior.  Beyond the machine to the man inside.  But you specifically, I feel something different for you.  My old self has been trying to block it, but it’s something I can no longer ignore.”

  You were in disbelief, but glad.  “I have feelings for you too.”

  “I know,” he said quickly, and you raised a brow.  He cleared his throat and uttered a quick and quiet, “sorry” before starting again.  “I mean, there were signs that indicated you felt similarly, but I did not want to assume.”

  “So where does this leave us?”

  “Perhaps we can socialize, and not while on a case.  Dinner?”

  “It’s a good start.”  

  You exchanged glances, and you could have sworn you saw the slightest hint of a smile on his face before Emma spoke up.

  “So,” she began, clasping her hands together.  “As happy as I am for you, _____________, we still have to finish this last scene.  You guys up for it?”

  “Oh right,” you nodded, putting some distance between you and Sherlock.  “Sounds good.  Ready Mr. Darcy?”

  At that, he cleared his throat.  “Indeed.”

#Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock x Reader #Reader insert #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock imagine #romance

[lastsonlost]

Crossing the divide

Do men really have it easier? These transgender guys found the truth was more complex.

In the 1990s, the late Stanford neuroscientist Ben Barres transitioned from female to male. He was in his 40s, mid-career, and afterward he marveled at the stark changes in his professional life. Now that society saw him as male, his ideas were taken more seriously. He was able to complete a whole sentence without being interrupted by a man. A colleague who didn’t know he was transgender even praised his work as “much better than his sister’s.”

Clinics have reported an increase in people seeking medical gender transitions in recent years, and research suggests the number of people identifying as transgender has risen in the past decade. Touchstones such as Caitlyn Jenner’s transition, the bathroom controversy, and the Amazon series “Transparent” have also made the topic a bigger part of the political and cultural conversation.

But it is not always evident when someone has undergone a transition — especially if they have gone from female to male.

“The transgender guys have a relatively straightforward process — we just simply add testosterone and watch their bodies shift,” said Joshua Safer, executive director at the Center for Transgender Medicine and Surgery at Mount Sinai Health System and Icahn School of Medicine in New York. “Within six months to a year they start to virilize — getting facial hair, a ruddier complexion, a change in body odor and a deepening of the voice.”

Transgender women have more difficulty “passing”; they tend to be bigger-boned and more masculine-looking, and these things are hard to reverse with hormone treatments, Safer said. “But the transgender men will go get jobs and the new boss doesn’t even know they’re trans.”

We spoke with four men who transitioned as adults to the bodies in which they feel more comfortable. Their experiences reveal that the gulf between how society treats women and men is in many ways as wide now as it was when Barres transitioned. But their diverse backgrounds provide further insight into how race and ethnicity inform the gender divide in subtle and sometimes surprising ways.

(Their words have been lightly edited for space and clarity.)

‘I’ll never call the police again’

Trystan Cotten, 50, Berkeley, Calif.

Professor of gender studies at California State University Stanislaus and editor of Transgress Press, which publishes books related to the transgender experience. Transitioned in 2008.

Life doesn’t get easier as an African American male. The way that police officers deal with me, the way that racism undermines my ability to feel safe in the world, affects my mobility, affects where I go. Other African American and Latino Americans grew up as boys and were taught to deal with that at an earlier age. I had to learn from my black and brown brothers about how to stay alive in my new body and retain some dignity while being demeaned by the cops.

One night somebody crashed a car into my neighbor’s house, and I called 911. I walk out to talk to the police officer, and he pulls a gun on me and says, “Stop! Stop! Get on the ground!” I turn around to see if there’s someone behind me, and he goes, “You! You! Get on the ground!” I’m in pajamas and barefoot. I get on the ground and he checks me, and afterward I said, “What was that all about?” He said, “You were moving kind of funny.” Later, people told me, “Man, you’re crazy. You never call the police.”

I get pulled over a lot more now. I GOT PULLED OVER MORE IN THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER MY TRANSITION THAN I DID THE ENTIRE 20 YEARS I WAS DRIVING BEFORE THAT.

Before, when I’d been stopped, even for real violations like driving 100 miles an hour, I got off. In fact, when it happened in Atlanta the officer and I got into a great conversation about the Braves. Now the first two questions they ask are: Do I have any weapons in the car, and am I on parole or probation?

Being a black man has changed the way I move in the world.

I used to walk quickly or run to catch a bus. Now I walk at a slower pace, and if I’m late I don’t dare rush. I am hyper-aware of making sudden or abrupt movements, especially in airports, train stations and other public places. I avoid engaging with unfamiliar white folks, especially white women. If they catch my eye, white women usually clutch their purses and cross the street. While I love urban aesthetics, I stopped wearing hoodies and traded my baggy jeans, oversized jerseys and colorful skullcaps for closefitting jeans, khakis and sweaters. These changes blunt assumptions that I’m going to snatch purses or merchandise, or jump the subway turnstile. The less visible I am, the better my chances of surviving.

But it’s not foolproof. I’m an academic sitting at a desk so I exercise where I can. I walked to the post office to mail some books and I put on this 40-pound weight vest that I walk around in. It was about 3 or 4 in the afternoon and I’m walking back and all of a sudden police officers drove up, got out of their car, and stopped. I had my earphones on so I didn’t know they were talking to me. I looked up and there’s a helicopter above. And now I can kind of see why people run, because you might live if you run, even if you haven’t done anything. This was in Emeryville, one of the wealthiest enclaves in Northern California, where there’s security galore. Someone had seen me walking to the post office and called in and said they saw a Muslim with an explosives vest. One cop, a white guy, picked it up and laughed and said, “Oh, I think I know what this is. This is a weight belt.”

It’s not only humiliating, but it creates anxiety on a daily basis. Before, I used to feel safe going up to a police officer if I was lost or needed directions. But I don’t do that anymore. I hike a lot, and if I’m out hiking and I see a dead body, I’ll keep on walking. I’ll never call the police again.

‘It now feels as though I am on my own’

Zander Keig, 52, San Diego

Coast Guard veteran. Works at Naval Medical Center San Diego as a clinical social work case manager. Editor of anthologies about transgender men. Started transition in 2005.

Prior to my transition, I was an outspoken radical feminist. I spoke up often, loudly and with confidence.

I was encouraged to speak up. I was given awards for my efforts, literally — it was like, “Oh, yeah, speak up, speak out.” When I speak up now, I am often given the direct or indirect message that I am “mansplaining,” “taking up too much space” or “asserting my white male heterosexual privilege.” Never mind that I am a first-generation Mexican American, a transsexual man, and married to the same woman I was with prior to my transition.

I find the assertion that I am now unable to speak out on issues I find important offensive and I refuse to allow anyone to silence me. My ability to empathize has grown exponentially, because I now factor men into my thinking and feeling about situations.

Prior to my transition, I rarely considered how men experienced life or what they thought, wanted or liked about their lives.

I have learned so much about the lives of men through my friendships with men, reading books and articles by and for men and through the men I serve as a licensed clinical social worker.

Social work is generally considered to be “female dominated,” with women making up about 80 percent of the profession in the United States. Currently I work exclusively with clinical nurse case managers, but in my previous position, as a medical social worker working with chronically homeless military veterans — mostly male — who were grappling with substance use disorder and severe mental illness, I was one of a few men among dozens of women.

Plenty of research shows that life events, medical conditions and family circumstances impact men and women differently. But when I would suggest that patient behavioral issues like anger or violence may be a symptom of trauma or depression, it would often get dismissed or outright challenged. The overarching theme was “men are violent” and there was “no excuse” for their actions.

I do notice that some women do expect me to acquiesce or concede to them more now: Let them speak first, let them board the bus first, let them sit down first, and so on. I also notice that in public spaces men are more collegial with me, which they express through verbal and nonverbal messages: head lifting when passing me on the sidewalk and using terms like “brother” and “boss man” to acknowledge me. As a former lesbian feminist, I was put off by the way that some women want to be treated by me, now that I am a man, because it violates a foundational belief I carry, which is that women are fully capable human beings who do not need men to acquiesce or concede to them.

What continues to strike me is the significant reduction in friendliness and kindness now extended to me in public spaces. It now feels as though I am on my own: No one, outside of family and close friends, is paying any attention to my well-being.

I can recall a moment where this difference hit home. A couple of years into my medical gender transition, I was traveling on a public bus early one weekend morning. There were six people on the bus, including me. One was a woman. She was talking on a mobile phone very loudly and remarked that “men are such a–holes.” I immediately looked up at her and then around at the other men. Not one had lifted his head to look at the woman or anyone else. The woman saw me look at her and then commented to the person she was speaking with about “some a–hole on the bus right now looking at me.” I was stunned, because I recall being in similar situations, but in the reverse, many times: A man would say or do something deemed obnoxious or offensive, and I would find solidarity with the women around me as we made eye contact, rolled our eyes and maybe even commented out loud on the situation. I’m not sure I understand why the men did not respond, but it made a lasting impression on me.

‘I took control of my career’

Chris Edwards, 49, Boston

Advertising creative director, public speaker and author of the memoir “Balls: It Takes Some to Get Some.” Transitioned in his mid-20s.

When I began my transition at age 26, a lot of my socialization came from the guys at work. For example, as a woman, I’d walk down the hall and bump into some of my female co-workers, and they’d say, “Hey, what’s up?” and I’d say, “Oh, I just got out of this client meeting. They killed all my scripts and now I have to go back and rewrite everything, blah blah blah. What’s up with you?” and then they’d tell me their stories. As a guy, I bump into a guy in the hall and he says, “What’s up?” and I launch into a story about my day and he’s already down the hall. And I’m thinking, well, that’s rude. So, I think, okay, well, I guess guys don’t really share, so next time I’ll keep it brief. By the third time, I realized you just nod.

The creative department is largely male, and the guys accepted me into the club. I learned by example and modeled my professional behavior accordingly. For example, I kept noticing that if guys wanted an assignment they’d just ask for it. If they wanted a raise or a promotion they’d ask for it. This was a foreign concept to me. As a woman, I never felt that it was polite to do that or that I had the power to do that. But after seeing it happen all around me I decided that if I felt I deserved something I was going to ask for it too. By doing that, I took control of my career. It was very empowering.

Apparently, people were only holding the door for me because I was a woman rather than out of common courtesy as I had assumed. Not just men, women too. I learned this the first time I left the house presenting as male, when a woman entered a department store in front of me and just let the door swing shut behind her. I was so caught off guard I walked into it face first.

When you’re socially transitioning, you want to blend in, not stand out, so it’s uncomfortable when little reminders pop up that you’re not like everybody else. I’m expected to know everything about sports. I like sports but I’m not in deep like a lot of guys. For example, I love watching football, but I never played the sport (wasn’t an option for girls back in my day) so there is a lot I don’t know. I remember the first time I was in a wedding as a groomsman. I was maybe three years into my transition and I was lined up for photos with all the other guys. And one of them shouted, “High school football pose!” and on cue everybody dropped down and squatted like the offensive line, and I was like, what the hell is going on? It was not instinctive to me since I never played. I tried to mirror what everyone was doing, but when you see the picture I’m kind of “offsides,” so to speak.

The hormones made me more impatient. I had lots of female friends and one of the qualities they loved about me was that I was a great listener. After being on testosterone, they informed me that my listening skills weren’t what they used to be. Here’s an example: I’m driving with one of my best friends, Beth, and I ask her “Is your sister meeting us for dinner?” Ten minutes later she’s still talking and I still have no idea if her sister is coming. So finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I snapped and said, “IS SHE COMING OR NOT?” And Beth was like, “You know, you used to like hearing all the backstory and how I’d get around to the answer. A lot of us have noticed you’ve become very impatient lately and we think it’s that damn testosterone!” It’s definitely true that some male behavior is governed by hormones. Instead of listening to a woman’s problem and being empathetic and nodding along, I would do the stereotypical guy thing — interrupt and provide a solution to cut the conversation short and move on. I’m trying to be better about this.

People ask if being a man made me more successful in my career. My answer is yes — but not for the reason you might think. As a man, I was finally comfortable in my own skin and that made me more confident. At work I noticed I was more direct: getting to the point, not apologizing before I said anything or tiptoeing around and trying to be delicate like I used to do. In meetings, I was more outspoken. I stopped posing my thoughts as questions. I’d say what I meant and what I wanted to happen instead of dropping hints and hoping people would read between the lines and pick up on what I really wanted. I was no longer shy about stating my opinions or defending my work. When I gave presentations I was brighter, funnier, more engaging. Not because I was a man. Because I was happy.

‘People assume I know the answer’

Alex Poon, 26, Boston

Project manager for Wayfair, an online home goods company. Alex is in the process of his physical transition; he did the chest surgery after college and started taking testosterone this spring.

Traditional Chinese culture is about conforming to your elders’ wishes and staying within gender boundaries. However, I grew up in the U.S., where I could explore my individuality and my own gender identity. When I was 15 I was attending an all-girls high school where we had to wear skirts, but I felt different from my peers. Around that point we began living with my Chinese grandfather towards the end of his life. He was so traditional and deeply set in his ways. I felt like I couldn’t cut my hair or dress how I wanted because I was afraid to upset him and have our last memories of each other be ruined.

Genetics are not in my favor for growing a lumberjack-style beard. Sometimes, Chinese faces are seen as “soft” with less defined jaw lines and a lack of facial fair. I worry that some of my feminine features like my “soft face” will make it hard to present as a masculine man, which is how I see myself. Instead, when people meet me for the first time, I’m often read as an effeminate man.

My voice has started cracking and becoming lower. Recently, I’ve been noticing the difference between being perceived as a woman versus being perceived as a man. I’ve been wondering how I can strike the right balance between remembering how it feels to be silenced and talked over with the privileges that come along with being perceived as a man. Now, when I lead meetings, I purposefully create pauses and moments where I try to draw others into the conversation and make space for everyone to contribute and ask questions.

People now assume I have logic, advice and seniority. They look at me and assume I know the answer, even when I don’t. I’ve been in meetings where everyone else in the room was a woman and more senior, yet I still got asked, “Alex, what do you think? We thought you would know.” I was at an all-team meeting with 40 people, and I was recognized by name for my team’s accomplishments. Whereas next to me, there was another successful team led by a woman, but she was never mentioned by name. I went up to her afterward and said, “Wow, that was not cool; your team actually did more than my team.” The stark difference made me feel uncomfortable and brought back feelings of when I had been in the same boat and not been given credit for my work.

When people thought I was a woman, they often gave me vague or roundabout answers when I asked a question. I’ve even had someone tell me, “If you just Googled it, you would know.” But now that I’m read as a man, I’ve found people give me direct and clear answers, even if it means they have to do some research on their own before getting back to me.

A part of me regrets not sharing with my grandfather who I truly am before he passed away. I wonder how our relationship might have been different if he had known this one piece about me and had still accepted me as his grandson. Traditionally, Chinese culture sees men as more valuable than women. Before, I was the youngest granddaughter, so the least important. Now, I’m the oldest grandson. I think about how he might have had different expectations or tried to instill certain traditional Chinese principles upon me more deeply, such as caring more about my grades or taking care of my siblings and elders. Though he never viewed me as a man, I ended up doing these things anyway.

Zander Keig contributed to this article in his personal capacity. The opinions expressed in this are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of the Department of Defense.

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Old story worth a repost SOURCE

[newstfionline]

Friday, October 30, 2020

U.S. refugee admissions (Foreign Policy) The number of refugees allowed into the United States in the coming year will be at its lowest level in modern times, after the White House announced just 15,000 refugees would be allowed settle in the country next year. According to a White House memo, 5,000 of those places will go to refugees facing religious persecution, 4,000 are reserved for refugees from Iraq who helped the United States, and 1,000 for refugees from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras; 5,000 open slots remain, although refugees from Somalia, Syria, and Yemen are banned unless they can meet special humanitarian criteria. The future of U.S. refugee policy hangs on Tuesday’s vote: Former Vice President Joe Biden has promised to increase annual refugee admissions to 125,000, while the Guardian reports that a second Trump administration would seek to slash such admissions to zero.

Days From Election, Police Killing of Black Man Roils Philadelphia (NYT) There is a grim familiarity to it all. In the final days of a bitter election, it is a reprise of the terrible images that the country has come to know all too well this year: The shaky cellphone video, the abrupt death of a Black man at the hands of the police. The howls of grief at the scene. The protests that formed immediately. The looting of stores that lasted late into the night. It began on Monday, when two officers confronted Walter Wallace Jr., a 27-year-old with a history of mental health problems. A lawyer for the family said that he was experiencing a crisis that day and that the family told officers about it when they arrived at the scene. In an encounter captured in video that appeared on social media, Mr. Wallace is seen walking into the street in the direction of the officers, who back away and aim their guns at him. Someone yells repeatedly at Mr. Wallace to “put the knife down.” The officers then fire multiple rounds. After Mr. Wallace falls to the ground, his mother screams and rushes to his body. Mr. Wallace later died of his wounds at a nearby hospital, and the neighborhood exploded in rage. In the days since, dozens have been arrested, cars have been burned and 53 officers have been hurt. On Tuesday, Gov. Tom Wolf called in the National Guard. On Wednesday, the city declared a 9 p.m. curfew. And once again, the people in the neighborhood where it all took place were left to consider what had happened and what, if anything, could be done about it.

Zeta soaks Southeast after swamping Gulf Coast; 6 dead (AP) Millions of people were without power and at least six were dead Thursday after Hurricane Zeta slammed into Louisiana and made a beeline across the South, leaving shattered buildings, thousands of downed trees and fresh anguish over a record-setting hurricane season. From the bayous of the Gulf Coast to Atlanta and beyond, Southerners used to dealing with dangerous weather were left to pick up the pieces once again. In Atlanta and New Orleans, drivers dodged trees in roads and navigated intersections without traffic signals. As many as 2.6 million homes and businesses lost power across seven states, but the lights were coming back on slowly. The sun came out and temperatures cooled, but trees were still swaying as the storm’s remnants blew through. Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards said the state sustained “catastrophic” damage on Grand Isle in Jefferson Parish, where Zeta punched three breaches in the levee. Edwards ordered the Louisiana National Guard to fly in soldiers to assist with search and rescue efforts and urged continued caution.

Violent criminal groups are eroding Mexico’s authority and claiming more territory (Washington Post) Organized crime here once meant a handful of cartels shipping narcotics up the highways to the United States. In a fundamental shift, the criminals of today are reaching ever deeper into the country, infiltrating communities, police forces and town halls. A dizzying range of armed groups—perhaps more than 200—have diversified into a broadening array of activities. They’re not only moving drugs but kidnapping Mexicans, trafficking migrants and shaking down businesses from lime growers to mining companies. It can be easy to miss how much the nation’s criminal threat has evolved. Mexico is the United States’ No. 1 trading partner, a country of humming factories and tranquil beach resorts. But despite 14 years of military operations—and $3 billion in U.S. anti-narcotics aid—criminal organizations are transforming the Mexican landscape: In a classified study produced in 2018 but not previously reported, CIA analysts concluded that drug-trafficking groups had gained effective control over about 20 percent of Mexico, according to several current and former U.S. officials. / Homicides in the last two years have surged to their highest levels in six decades; 2020 is on track to set another record. Mexico’s murder rate is more than four times that of the United States. / Hundreds of thousands of people have fled their homes to escape violence; the Mexican Congress is poised to pass the country’s first law to help the internally displaced. / More than 77,000 people have disappeared, authorities reported this year, a far larger total than previous governments acknowledged. It is the greatest such crisis in Latin America since the “dirty wars” of the 1970s and 1980s. / The State Department is urging Americans to avoid travel to half of Mexico’s states, tagging five of them as Level 4 for danger—the same as Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq. President Andrés Manuel López Obrador has created a 100,000-member national guard to reclaim areas with little state presence. It’s not clear that will make a significant difference. Years of Mexican and U.S. strategy—arresting drug kingpins, training Mexican police, overhauling the justice system—have failed to curb the violence.

Many Cubans hope US election will lead to renewed ties (AP) Not so long ago the tables at Woow!!! restaurant in Havana were filled with tourists ordering mojitos and plates of grilled octopus. But as President Donald Trump rolled back Obama-era measures opening Cuba relations, the restaurant grew increasingly empty. Now entrepreneurs like Orlando Alain Rodríguez are keeping a close eye on the upcoming U.S. presidential election in hope that a win by Democratic challenger Joe Biden might lead to a renewal of a relationship cut short. “The Trump era has been like a virus to tourism in Cuba,” said Rodríguez, the owner of Woow!!! and another restaurant feeling the pinch. Few countries in Latin America have seen as dramatic a change in U.S. relations during the Trump administration or have as much at stake in who wins the election. Former President Barack Obama restored diplomatic relations, loosened restrictions on travel and remittances and became the first U.S. chief of state to set foot in the island in 88 years. The result was a boom in tourism and business growth on the island. Trump has steadily reversed that opening, tapping into the frustrations of a wide segment of the Cuban American community that does not support opening relations while a communist government remains in power. He put into effect part of a previously suspended U.S. law that permits American citizens to sue companies that have benefited from private properties confiscated by the Cuban government, put a new cap on remittances, reduced commercial flights and banned cruises. The president has also forbidden Americans from buying cigars, rum or staying in government-run hotels. A Trump reelection would likely spell another four years of tightened U.S. sanctions while many expect a Biden administration to carry out at least some opening.

Winter gloom settles over Europe (Washington Post) The clocks were dialed back an hour across Europe this week, and the long nights come early now. The hospitals are filling up, as the cafes are shutting down. Governments are threatening to cancel Christmas gatherings. As new coronavirus infections surge again in Europe, breaking daily records, the mood is growing dark on the continent—and it’s not even November. The reprieve of summer feels a long time ago, and Europe is entering a serious funk. Germany and France announced national lockdowns Wednesday to try to get the virus under control. The new measures are less restrictive than in the spring, and yet they face more resistance. People are no longer so willing to remain confined to their homes, venturing onto balconies in the evenings to applaud health-care workers. Many people remain scared of covid-19, but they are exhausted and frustrated—and growing angry and rebellious. In a sign of the times, the head of the World Health Organization recognized the “pandemic fatigue that people are feeling” but urged “we must not give up.” The smugness in Europe about having bested the Americans under President Trump is fading with the daily record-breaking counts.

Young and Jobless in Europe: ‘It’s Been Desperate’ (NYT) Like millions of young people across Europe, Rebecca Lee, 25, has suddenly found herself shut out of the labor market as the economic toll of the pandemic intensifies. Her job as a personal assistant at a London architecture firm, where she had worked for two years, was eliminated in September, leaving her looking for work of any kind. Ms. Lee, who has a degree in illustration from the University of Westminster, sent out nearly 100 job applications. After scores of rejections, and even being wait-listed for a food delivery gig at Deliveroo, she finally landed a two-month contract at a family-aid charity that pays 10 pounds (about $13) an hour. “At the moment I will take anything I can get,” Ms. Lee said. “It’s been desperate.” The coronavirus pandemic is rapidly fueling a new youth unemployment crisis in Europe. Young people are being disproportionately hit, economically and socially, by lockdown restrictions, forcing many to make painful adjustments and leaving policymakers grasping for solutions. Years of job growth has eroded in a matter of months, leaving more than twice as many young people than other adults out of work. The jobless rate for people 25 and under jumped from 14.7 percent in January to 17.6 percent in August. Europe is not the only place where younger workers face a jobs crunch. Young Americans are especially vulnerable to the downturn. In China, young adults are struggling for jobs in the post-outbreak era. But in Europe, the pandemic’s economic impact puts an entire generation at risk, according to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development.

3 dead in church attack, plunging France into dual emergency (AP) A man armed with a knife attacked people inside a French church and killed three Thursday, prompting the government to raise its security alert status to the maximum level hours before a nationwide coronavirus lockdown. The attack in Mediterranean city of Nice was the third in two months in France that authorities have attributed to Muslim extremists, including the beheading of a teacher. It comes during a growing furor over caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad that were republished in recent months by the satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo—renewing vociferous debate in France and the Muslim world over the depictions that Muslims consider offensive but are protected by French free speech laws. Other confrontations and attacks were reported Thursday in the southern French city of Avignon and in the Saudi city of Jiddah, but it was not immediately clear if they were linked to the attack in Nice.

Germany does not believe Thai king has breached state business ban: source (Reuters) Germany does not believe that Thailand’s king has so far breached its ban on conducting politics while staying there, a parliamentary source said on Wednesday, after lawmakers were briefed by the government. Following a meeting of the Bundestag’s foreign affairs committee, the source said the government had briefed lawmakers that it believes the king is permitted to make occasional decisions, as long as he does not continuously conduct business from German soil. When asked about the status of the king, the government told the committee he has a visa that allows him to stay in Germany for several years as a private person and also enjoys diplomatic immunity as a head of state. Thailand’s political crisis has made the king’s presence a challenge for Germany, but revoking the visa of a visiting head of state could cause a major diplomatic incident.

China’s New Confidence on Display (Foreign Policy) The Chinese leadership is currently meeting in Beijing to set economic and political goals for the next five years. In the run-up to the plenum, speeches by President Xi Jinping and others have demonstrated a bold confidence that this is China’s moment. As economic policymaker Liu He put it, “Bad things are turning into good ones.” Despite the damage to China’s global reputation this year, its leaders seem to believe that Western economic weakness and mishandling of the coronavirus have created opportunities. That may be true, but it may also encourage dangerous overconfidence, as happened in 2009, when the Chinese leadership was convinced the economic crisis had significantly weakened Washington. That overconfidence is most frightening when it comes to Taiwan, where recent saber-rattling has again raised the specter of an invasion. Distinguishing signal from noise on Taiwan is difficult, but the traditional restraints on Chinese military action—fear of U.S. intervention, reputational damage, and corruption inside the People’s Liberation Army—have weakened. The odds of Chinese action in Taiwan increase if the U.S. election doesn’t produce a clear result, or if a lame duck President Donald Trump embarks on a scorched-earth program on his way out—since Beijing may be convinced that a distracted Washington has no will to block it.

#headlines #news

[lovetheplayers]

Taylor's interview with Kyle & Jackie O | KIIS 1065 (April 29, 2019)

Kyle: It’s Kyle and Jackie. I’ve been telling you all morning: Taylor Swift, the biggest star in the world right now and a new single ME! that’s out now. She joins us on the phone. This is really weird, Jackie, because I was only thinking last week in LA: what’s going on with Taylor Swift? We’re overdue for some Taylor Swift stuff. I felt a vibe—a Taylor Swift vibe, you know what I’m saying? And then, boom, here we are. New song’s out, she’s one of the best in the business. I’d say the best in the world. Good morning, Taylor.

Jackie: Hey, Taylor!

Taylor: Well, hi! That was a really, really, very nice intro.

Kyle: Oh, well you deserve it, doll. Absolutely killing it at the moment. Congrats on that new song. We’re all loving it and oh, that video. Scoring the most video views on YouTube within 24 hours. How good’s that? Definitely well-deserved.

Taylor: Oh, thank you for saying that. Thanks for watching it. It was so, so, so much fun to make that video. Like, one of the most fun video shoots I’ve ever had. And yeah, like, collaborating with Brendon Urie on this song was hilarious because he’s just so much fun and so full of energy and kind of brings a hundred and fifty percent enthusiasm to everything he does, so he’s flying through the air, fighting in French. It’s just the whole thing.

Jackie: Who came up with the concept for that? Do you come up with that or do you leave it to someone who’s kind of, like—that’s their expertise in that field?

Taylor: Well actually I wrote the treatment concept for this video and approached Dave Myers about it and thought–and just thought, like, we could get together and come up with the best visual effects to add to the storyline, so it ended up working out exactly that way. And Dave Myers is an amazing director and we co-directed this and just really tried to make this entire fantastical, magical world but also include as many foreshadowing moments about the new album and visuals that would kind of be, like, little clues and hints and Easter eggs in the video, so it was a process that started months ago and took a lot of time to plan, but it really paid off in the end. I feel like people are, like, being entertained by it and that’s the nicest thing you could tell somebody whose job it is to try to entertain people.

Jackie: Yeah, because I noticed in the lead up on your Instagram there were a lot of pastel colors on your page in the lead up to it, which probably a lot of people didn’t realize that was, you know, working towards the announcement of the clip.

Taylor: Yeah, I mean the fans are very clever and they–I think realized it very soon. Like, immediately they realized that this is a very abrupt shift from my Instagram. If you scroll down my Instagram it was all dark colors and then it just immediately turned into just, like, a majestic cloud of Easter colors. My fans picked up on it really quick and–but yeah, the fact that they’re so clever and the fact that they’re so detail-oriented and they watch a video and they’ll watch it, you know, 20 times trying to figure out what they’ve missed, that makes it more fun to do that stuff because if nobody was paying attention and I put, like, 50 Easter egg clues in this music video I’d be so bummed out. I’d be like, “Oh, man. That was a lot of effort for nothing.”

Kyle: Hey, now there’s a snake featured within the video clip: that symbol–is that any–is there any–well you know what they say about the snake. Is that about anything? Is that just a thing you’ve thrown in there? What’s the go?

Taylor: The snake in the video is symbolic of something.

Jackie: Yeah, well we won’t say what it is then. Well I think we all know. And also in the beginning of the clip you and Brendon, you’re having a fight. I’m thinking, I’m assuming it’s in French, right?

Taylor: Yeah, it’s in French and that’s another symbolic clue that will probably be revealed in the next few months. Like, a lot of the Easter eggs that I put in the videos are ones that, like, I want them to age well. Like, I want some of them to be revealed within, you know, people watching the video initially, and then, like, some of them people won’t realize the meaning of them until about, like, 6 months to a year from now when we go on tour. Like, that’s how many– that’s how far ahead I've been planning this album. I just want the fans to have a good time. I think that if you look at music and how people used to gather around the record player to listen to music, it was such a social event, and now these days we have I think a responsibility to try and turn music back into a social event, and whatever ways, you know, artists think of to do that, I think it’s really kind of exciting that we have so many outlets now to make a song back into something that people not only listen to but kind of assign to their memories and talk about with their friends. You know, I love, like, Game of Thrones and figuring out theories and clues and things like that, so I think the more we can have that social and discussion element to music the more fun it is for people.

Kyle: Oh, my god. Have you watched Game of Thrones yet, GOT as we all call it? Have you watched it?

Taylor: I literally just watched the new episode before I got on the phone with you. Oh, my god.

Jackie: Okay, what did you think?

Taylor: Okay, well, did you watch it?

Kyle: No, I haven’t watched it yet but I’m dying to because I’ve been over in LA for a while so this week I’ll have three up my sleeve. I’m pretty pumped about it. Everyone’s talking about it. Jackie–she’s so behind. She’s like you know back in season 1, episode 2. What are you?

Jackie: So I have missed a whole season and I’ve got to catch up on it. I’ve been a huge fan but I’ve missed a season, but everyone is talking about the latest episode and that it’s a big episode. Is it?

Taylor: It’s literally the most beautiful episode I’ve ever seen. And the score is so, so exquisite and the visual effects and the acting and the battle sequences. Like, I don’t want to be, like, that person who spoils anything so I’m not going to, but, yeah you just have, like, a real wild ride ahead of you. I’m so happy about, like, the quality content we’re getting from Game of Thrones.

Jackie: I’ll have to catch up.

Taylor: Yeah, it’s so good.

Jackie: And you’re gonna be in the new Cats film as well which is supposed to be epic. That comes out around Christmas, right?

Taylor: Yeah, it does! I shot that in London for a couple months and it was so much fun, and I learned so much because I was going in every day and I was doing extensive choreography, and dialect coaching, and a class called cat school where they have an expert come in and teach us how to move our bodies like a cat and how to sense things like a cat and how to–just kind of learning as much as we can about their physicality and why they do things the way they do things And it’s, um, it’s been amazing doing that process of kind of being a part of a big movie. I’m really grateful that I got to do that.

Kyle: Oh, but you would have a massive advantage, an upper hand on the rest of the cast. So who’s in it? Rebel Wilson, James Corden–we love him–Idris Elba–totally excellent bloke– but you of all are the biggest cat lover. They don’t come anywhere near you. You love cats.

Taylor: They all love cats. They were all so prepared. You have no idea.

Kyle: Well we were asking who loves cats more. I’m the biggest pussy lover in this country, so just saying. Just leaving it out there for you.

Taylor: Oh, my god. Judi Dench actually was going to be in the original production of Cats but she was injured so she couldn’t be in it. This is actually, like, it’s so meaningful for so many different ways. There is just—like, it was so much fun because everybody was so committed and also it’s some of the best dancers in the world; like, dancers that I’ve been so, like—admired so much from afar like Mette Towley and just people who are so, so, so insanely talented, and so getting to work with them and getting to know them, it’s no complaints here.

Kyle: Well we cannot wait to see you in that film. Congratulations on the film, on the video, on the music. It’s great to see you back, I’m telling you. I’m glad you’re here. New song ME! It’s incredible; well done. Hopefully you’ll come and visit here in Australia soon. The door’s always open. Thanks for chatting, hon.

Jackie: Thanks, Taylor .

Taylor: I’ll definitely come visit you in Australia. And thanks so much for chatting with me and for watching the new video. it’s really sweet of you, and hopefully I’ll see you guys soon.

Kyle: No worries. See you soon, babe! Taylor Swift!

Jackie: Bye, hon!

Taylor: Bye, guys!

#kyle and jackie o #taylor swift #me! radio promo

[lil-nest]

Summary: When Talia's young son loses his leg and she leaves him in an alley for his father to find, she doesn't expect the GCPD to find him first. When Officer Dick Grayson finds an amputated child in an alley, he doesn't expect Jason Todd's advice to be "foster him". Both those things happen anyway.

Notes: Written for Batfam Week 2018, Day 4:AU Warning for child abandonment, non-graphic amputation, League of shadow-typical ableism (which does not reflect the author’s opinion in any way, shape or form) and a little bit of swearing.

“I'm sorry, lady Talia, but there's only so much we can do. No one ever tried to transplant a whole leg before, and even though the leg matches his DNA perfectly, the procedure just failed.”

Talia grit her teeth at the memory. Oh how cathartic it had been to kill that scientist.

“I'm sorry, Lady Talia, but we can't try again. His body went through too much stress during the first few attempts, and we don't have anything new to try this time. We did all we could, but lord Damian will not get his leg back.”

She hadn't killed this one. Her father had stilled her hand before she could.

“Daughter, you know it is no use. It is time for you to let go of the boy. He will no longer be able to serve the League.”

“But father, he was shaping up to be a great heir. Making a new one will set back our plans...”

“We will not make a new one. The detective has been training his stray, and the boy has a lot of potential... he might even become a better detective than his mentor, and he seems more susceptible than Wayne ever was... It won't take much to say him to my side, and he'll make a perfect heir. Your son, on the other hand, is no more than a liability now. We can't even plant him in the Detective's house, now that he has a worthier heir. Kill him, or I will.”

Talia al Ghul did not cry. She had not cried since infancy. But the idea of killing her child...

Maybe he had become a liability. After all, she was risking everything to save his life.

She had taken him from the lab, claiming she wanted to give him a death worthy of a warrior. Instead, she had put him on plane headed to Gotham and had presented the corpse of a clone to her father.

She set him down in the shadows, where she knew Batman's patrol would take him. She didn't know if her Beloved would recognize him as his own – she somewhat hoped he wouldn't – but she knew he would make sure he was safe. It was all she could give her son now.

She forgot to take the police patrols into account.

Sometimes, when Dick worked overtime and Jason had nothing planned for evening, he'd let himself in the cop's apartment and cook him a nice warm meal. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement: He got both the pleasure of trying out new recipes and a free meal – sometimes two or three, when he let himself be talked into taking the leftovers home – and Dick could have something other than cereal after a long shift.

Dick would talk about paying him for those every once in a while, but Jason always called bullshit. They were at that point in their friendship when nobody knew exactly who owed who what favors and they just did things for each other – or, more accurately, they both knew exactly what the other did for them but they couldn't agree on which favor compensated which.

Of course, talking about such things was unthinkable between two emotionally constipated ex-foster kids, so Jason just claimed it was payment for the times his masked self showed up at the fire escape asking for a patch-up job.

This would inevitably get Dick to stutter and claim that if an illegal vigilante had ever presented themselves at his window – which they hadn't, thank you – then as an officer of police, of course he would have arrested them, and if, hypothetically, he had decided to break his vows and help said non-existent vigilante, then he certainly would not know their identity, but the point was moot, anyway, since Jason was not, in fact, stupid enough to be part of any hypothetical vigilante group picking up Batman's slack in Crime Alley.

The rant would then be followed by an abrupt change of subject, and Dick would swiftly send Jason home with all the leftovers instead of only half, and tell him to come by with laundry some time.

Jason would call it a win, and would even even be kind enough not to mention the fact that Dick said “Batman's slack” and not “the police's”, as though he had given up on the force ever setting foot there.

That particular evening, Jason was sitting in Dick's couch while his soup simmered, reading about his exploits in the paper – seriously, who put an article about his people struggling to survive next to crappy suppositions about Timothy Drake-Wayne's “secret life”? – when the man came home.

If Jason hadn't been so worried, he would have wondered what it said about him that he knew something was wrong just from the way he closed the door and the lack of greeting.

A moment passed, and he was just about to go check that Dick wasn't dead when the man walked up to him and threw himself on the couch.

“Rough day?”

He was treated to an empty look he hadn't seen since he had last seen his friend wake up from a nightmare back in the home.

“There was a kid...”, Dick eventually said.

Jason winced. Cases involving children were always hard, but Dick usually coped by crying on his shoulder. Whatever had shaken him enough to make him shut down his emotions must have been messed up – even by Gotham standards.

“A boy, four year old – five at the most. Found him in a gutter in a back alley. He was.. god, he was missing a leg.”

Jason's blood ran cold.

“Some new psycho killer, you think?”

“No, Jason, no, he was alive. And the leg... it was cut clean, “fresh surgical amputation” the medic said. Coated with antiseptic, properly bandaged, hell, they're making a blood work because they think he might have been given antibiotics. Jason, it's like this kid got in an accident, got amputated and treated in an hospital, and then just tossed out!”

There were the tears. It was progress, at least.

Jason didn't like where he thought this was going, but asked anyway:

“You think his parents abandoned him on the streets because he lost his leg, don't you?”

“I can't know that. Maybe the leg and his current situation have no link. Maybe he just got kidnapped while leaving the hospital and the kidnappers realized he would need treatment to stay alive and didn't want complications so they just threw him out. Maybe there is a psycho out there who gets off on cutting off kid's members, then pretending to save them by treating them and then leaving them to die in the streets, but...”

“But you know both these scenarios are less likely than assholes deciding their kid was not worth the inconvenience or the cost.”

Dick stayed silent. Jason decided to change the subject.

“Did you try talking to the kid?”

“I did. He wasn't coherent. It might have been shock, but... whatever he was trying to say, it didn't sound like it was even meant to be English.”

“Maybe that's it, maybe the parents are illegal immigrants and can neither earn enough money to take care of him nor benefit from healthcare.”

“But then how did they get him treated in an hospital? Their identity would have been controlled. No, Jason, whoever did this had enough money and rights to get this kid surgery and medicine, which means they also had enough money and rights to take care of him afterwards. They decided to leave him to either die or get thrown into the system. Jason, you know what's going to happen to him. No one will want to adopt or foster a disabled, potentially traumatized kid who can't even speak English, and GCPS has neither the means nor the willingness necessary to give him the help he'll need. He won't even end up like us, Jason, he'll end up worse!”

“Not if you do something about it” he countered.

Now, the thing with Jason was, he was a firm believer in taking things in his own hands. Always had been, really. His mom was too high to make them food? No problem, he could teach himself how to cook. No more food money? Well, hello there, Bat-tires, sitting there, prime for the jacking. The foster parents beat the smaller kids? Associate with eldest foster brother to beat them back. Now-ex foster brother wanted to give up on his dream to become a cop? Nothing was as easy as getting himself arrested at a strategic time so Dick could “accidentally” bump into his idol while bailing him out. Neither Batman nor the GCPD would protect the citizen of crime alley? Meet Red Hood and his Outlaws.

So of course Jason would suggest doing something – probably stupid – when someone complained something was unfair. It usually didn't matter how out there his ideas were, because Dick was always there to act as a voice of reason. He just forgot that said reason tended to disappear when Dick was upset, leaving him incredibly susceptible.

“And what exactly do you suggest I do about this?”

“Well, you're a registered foster parent, aren't you? Take him in.”

Dick startled.

“I'm sorry, what? I can't just take in a kid on a whim! Besides I only got registered so we could ensure children involved in a case didn't disappear into the ether before we were done like I almost did after my parents died.”

Ah, there was the voice of reason Jason knew and loved.

“With that being said, the kid is currently involved in a case. I could take him in just until we close it. It would give his social worker time to find a somewhat appropriate home for him. And maybe if he spends enough time with me it'll help him trust me and we might find a way to communicate...”

Never mind.

Dick deflated.

“We both know if I take him I'll end up getting attached and won't be able to bring myself to let him get lost in the system, though.” A dry, humorless laugh. “I'm pretty sure that's the kind of emotional investment the academy warned us about”

Dick's internal war would have been hilarious if the subject hadn't been so serious. Jason felt the need to intervene, since it was a little bit his fault, too.

“Eh, screw the academy anyway. You've always wanted to be a dad, and I'm pretty sure the only reason you haven't adopted yet is because you know you'll get attached to every kid you see and won't be able to chose. This might just be your chance!”

“I know, and it's very tempting, but... I'm a single man with a dangerous, time-sucking job, and my budget's not too tight, but it's not that loose.”

“You know you can work around all of those if you try. Look, I'm not saying you should up and adopt right now, but maybe give it a thought? The kid's due for a few more days in the hospital, right? Take that time to think about it, talk about it with his worker a bit, and if you find out you still want to after that, just foster the kid until the case is closed. It'll let you see if you can find a solution for the job and the money thing, and most importantly if you click with the kid. Then when the case is closed you'll know what to do. Hell, if you're worried you'll end up too attached to take a rational decision, I promise I'll be the devil's advocate.”

Dick snorted.

“Right. You haven't met him, Jay. He'll have you wrapped around his little fingers soon enough.”

“Hey, if he's able to melt my stone cold heart, then he'll deserve a place beside the only other person who did, right?”

Dick laughed.

“Alright. But you get to be the babysitter while I investigate.”

“I'm sorry, but you're supposed to find a workable arrangement, and I happen to have a job that I like and almost pays my bills. I'm not ready to become a full-time babysitter until the kid hits eighteen. I might, however, be willing to do emergency babysitting every once in a while.”

“It's a deal then.”

A week later, Jason's phone vibrated, startling the cat he was holding into fleeing. Once the animal had been safely caught and given to its new owner, he checked, silently promising retribution to the asshole who had almost ruined a perfect adoption.

It was a text from Dick.

“I'll be picking Damian at Gotham's General on Monday. I hope you're free this Saturday, because we're going shopping ;p”

Somehow, his stupid ideas always came back to bite him in the ass.

#batfamweek2018 #day 4:AU #amputation #ableism #child abandonment #light swearing #alternate universe #dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne

[filmista]

The Piano (1993)

“What a death! What a chance! What a surprise! My will has chosen life! Still it has had me spooked and many others besides!”

Jane Campion’s The Piano is well known for being the first and until recently one of the only films that has won a woman a Palme D’or for best director at Cannes. It’s still one of New Zealand’s best known pictures and a steady reference, when discussing female directors.

The only thing I knew about it however was, how successful it was at Cannes and that it was at the time (and perhaps still) regarded as a very controversial film, of which it has been heavily debated whether it is or isn’t a feminist picture in nature. It’s kind of sad that in large part today it lives on through its reputation of “difficult”, because it’s truly a stunning film.

When I first watched it (I have seen it twice since) I was swept away and fell in love instantly, it quickly got a spot amidst my favorite period dramas. It felt thoroughly modern and at the same time timeless to me.

I love it when a film and its maker alike, are brave and it isn’t afraid to sometimes shock or provoke a little. And not out a need to just shock necessarily, but more about a passion to let their vision go uncompromised.

The piano certainly is that kind of film. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that not everyone liked this and that some people might have felt shocked or even appaled.

I think this is in part due to the fact that it doesn’t offer us any clearly defined or initially even likeable human beings in it. They’re all far from perfect, but that makes the film all the more grittier and emotionally rawer, which might be why it has endured in time.

What made it for me so special and masterful, and what fuelled a desire to watch it again almost immediately after, is the fact that the film is so clashingly different from what you usually expect of a film of the same kind.

It’s at times a living contradiction, it embraces conventions, and then dances around them. It might be a period drama, but its the first period drama in a while; that had me in genuine suspense, shocked and surprised pleasantly at every turn while its story was unfolding.

I had a vague idea that this was a period drama, and read that it involved two men, I just thought it might be extremely pretty to look at melodrama. I like period dramas, but only when they manage to do something unexpected.

Something that surprises me and The Piano certainly succeeded at that. Visually it does justice to the time period it’s supposed to take place in, the clothes and artifacts and attitudes of the people match and are what is supposed to be expected, initially...

Yet as I said, at its heart it clashes with these traditions and expectations of the genre and subverts them. And that’s what’s so exhilarating about it for me, it’s a powerful film, in that it gently imposes its feeling and emotions onto you.

If it reminds me of any other film, it’s only in one thing of Picnic At Hanging Rock

in that it takes “proper victorian society, and puts everything upside down. Letting it run wild, letting it be led completely by instinct, and at the same time show the perversion of its repression and properness.

The Piano is an incredibly beaufiul film in terms of visuals. Like many or at least good period dramas it painstakingly recreates the period its supposed to take place in. However it is as I said also visually a gem.

The cinematography is sumptuous and lush, alternatingly light and dark according to the mood of a scene and often of a character. The colors of the landscape heightened, to put emphasis on both the beauty and wild unpredictableness of it.

It’s been criticsed a few times for its editing being too abrupt or grainy in quality. But personally I love it, the cinematography and the sound, don’t follow any sets of rule any more rules than its story.

Again what surprised me about it, is that for a period drama it was surprisingly untame and erotic, yet at times brutal while still elegant, like only a female touch seems able to bring to a film sometimes.

The Piano opens with Scottish mail order bride Ada (a magnificent Holly Hunter) being sent to New Zealand by her father alongside of her young and preccocious daughter Flora (Anna Paquin in one of the best child performances I’ve seen), to marry Stewart a local farmer and settler.

As soon as we see this, we know what kind of world to expect, and how the society in it functions. Women were still regarded as little better than cattle, to be sold off and bought, with the other only purpose of bearing children.

You best weren’t too temperamnental or strong willed. All things the film’s protagonist is not. We discover another curiosity about her: she hasn’t spoken since she was 6 years old. We don’t know why this is; it’s ever since her last husband was struck by lightning when they were singing in a forest during a thunderstorm once, according to her daughter.

During another moment she tells someone that it’s because her mother says that people talk rubbish anyway, and that it isn’t neccessary to listen. It’s probably a bit of a combination of different things, she very likely has been emotionally traumatized at one point in her life. We don’t know whether something happened as a child, or with the man that gave her, her daughter and who he was.

Very likely her muteness is equal parts brought on by trauma, as selective. It gives her a tranquility, she doesn’t have to answer, if somehting displeases her. Yet all the while in her mind she can think whatever she wants, and no one will read her. It’s also a trait that would make it perfectly socially acceptable to be a bit withdrawn sometimes.

With her daughter she communicates through sign language, and her daughter translates them for her whenever the need arises.. Their dynamic with each other works, until of course going to New Zealand.

Things start off bleak immediately, her husband isn’t there on time to meet her and her daughter. So the two are forced to sleep in an improvised tent, made out of her underskirt, and sleep outside on the beach.

The next day he arrives, but rather than apologize,instantly complains to someone about how small she is. Prior we see he had written her a card sayng he didn’t mind her being mute, as god loves even dumb creatures.

Through the tone of the voiceover we can instantly tell how she feels about him, not positvely at all. Ada has one thing in her life that allows her to feel like she can speak and feel alive, her piano.

However her new husband, even though she empathically, desperately makes lcear how important it is to her, he could care less, and tells her it is too heavy, the piano is now exposed to the elements on the beach.

No affection, love or lust grows between her and her husband. And initially her daughter refuses to call him papa. Stewart grows frustraed, especially since she also doesn’t talk, she looks at him with an icy expression at all times.

He doesn’t seem to understand that this is because he never tries to see her fully, try to understand her and show kind of tenderness that’s unforced and from within him.

Ada is eventually so melancholy by the separation from that she sneaks off to the beach to play it. There a neighbour hears it and is so moved by Ada’s playing that he offers her husband a deak, land in exchange for letting his wife come over to teach him how to play piano.

We quickly find out his plan is not enitely act out of love of music, but also a strong sexual attraction to Ada, he isntinctually gets that her piano is a way to come closer to her.

And here is where the film takes its often controversial trun, into nasty romance territory. The film becomes about sexual power play, and how the power can shift from one person to another. Though here that grows into genuine affection on both sides.

Banes makes Ada a rather crude offer, small sexual favors, in turn she gets to play her piano. There’s 88 keys, acts like taking off her jacket might equal one, while raising her skirt would be five. Each act is assigned a number of keys.

Initially she seems bothered by the offer, but accepts in order to play. Had a man directed the film, we might have been shown this in a much more impersonal and aggressive way, there’s never anything grauitious about it.

But we really get to see the perspectuve off both. Both people are lonley and long for a real human connection. Ada knows this of Baes, and quickly realizes her power: he desires her company, and is affected when she pretens to not care.

Meanwhile she has the power to negotiate the sexual acts in the direction that she lies, increasing the number of keys required for a certain action.

While this offer is undeniably crude and borders on prostutituon. Campion did take a surprsingly affecting trun. Both people find warmth in each other. And by the time they make love, they are eactually in love.

And surprsingly for a that takes place in the time it does, he checks in with Ada, sees if she’s okay with it. And unselfishly proceeds to focusing on her pleasure, something she likley hadn’t experienced.

There’s even a scene in which he lifts her hoopskirt to perform oral sex (wild!) there’s a genuine affection and passion; and it is with him that she finally speaks, whispering something in his ear during the act, he seems overjoyed by her reaction.

And while it’s a powerful moment, it’s one of a great many in the film. It shows them connecting  a personal level. However Ada’s husband, saw the two of them, only discoering the betrayal because her daughter Ada had told her stepdad, who she has finally come to like.

After sleeping with each other, Banes tells her they should not see each other again, as he was already suspicious and mean towards her. Thus sacrificing what he feels for her.

Howver after the incident events take a turn for the worse. And George snaps completely, actually locking her in the house, by setting wooden boards around points of exit. His stepdaughter voluntarily helps him. Campion never explicitly places blame on the child though.

She was likely, dangerously acting out childhish jelaous, as she is ni longer her mother’s only source of happiness and thing she pays constant attention to. But she is eventually horrified, when Stewart in his mad jealousy goes even further.

Ada whilst not in love with her husband, knows exactly what he wants. And starts to play right into it, finally approaching him physically, so that he thinks she’s warming up to him or even falling in love. Finally he trusts her and allows her to go outside, however she can’t really do much because her daugher is still there.

So she decides to write Banes a declararion of love. Asking her daughter to deliver it to him. However she brings it to her stepad, who opens and reads it. And finally fully loses it.

Previously he had already tried to rape her (after catching her in the act), but he now drags her outside towards a choping block cuts off one of her fingers, that he sends to Banes with the threat “come near her again, and I’ll cut off the others”. There’s a moment in the film, in which certain characters attend a play of the Blue Beard story, perhaps this foreshadowed his violence in the end.

There’s a look that Ada gives her husband after it happens, it’s one of pure disgust and hatred. The way a person would look at their shoe after having stepped in dog poop.

Something interesting happened at this moment, the veneer of “respectiful Victorian society cracks. Stewart turns out to be more insensitve and ulimately a bigger brute than the man who had “gone native”.

The difference is that Banes has long ceased to give a shit about the ways of societt, and what anyone thinks. And that he is therefore free to see and treat Ada as a fully layered and equal human being.

By which she reveals sides, she hadn’t shown anyone and thus feels appreciated and falls for him. And he falls for her in spite of her, what would at the time have been deemed an unseemingly strong will for a woman. I’s very likely why he fell for her to begin with.

Yet Stewart, regarded her almost as somehthing inhuman, and sees her as somehthing he’s entitled to as a man, and expects that she will automatically submit to his authority.

Ada however doesn’t. Like Banes, she seems to care very little for societal norms as well. If Stewart had been kinder to her maybe the relationship would have evolved different, but since his actions at the beginning of the film, he condemmned himself by his unwillingmess to “listen”.

Finally stewart realizes tat Ada will never love him, and allows her to doo what she had wnated: run off with Banes, we don’t know if it’s entirely selffles, if he in the end realizes his mistakes and wants her happiness, or if he has given up.

Regardless it sets about a change and Ada is now with Banes, who has fashioned her a metal finger. When they go away with each other, he takes her piano, knowing how important it is. She however no longer wants it and demands it to be thrown in the water. Where she ends up with it.

The piano at least I think so, represents her past, her bad memories  and a means of communication. Or rather that with which she escaped having her “voice” oppresed as a woman. Briefly she seems to contemplate dying with it, but then fights to the surface and joins Banes, to embark on a new life.

The figure of her lover, is a controversial one. Some reduce him to a rapist, since they say that Ada had no choice or agency. But that would mean denying things, first that Ada isn’t as demure and innocent looking as she seems.

She read the situation, and played into all the while realizing, her power, it’’s ultimately she that sets the pace and decides what happens when. But more importantly, this interpreatation dismisses Ada as sexual; it denies the possibiluty that she could have desires and enjoy pleasures, or have a kinky side that enjoyed the seductive game they played initially.

There’s a moment where the tone shifts completely, Banes gently makes a hole in her stockings, and caresses the skin underneath it. We see Ada’s face, she responds with a visible gasp of enjoyment, that makes it clear she’s excited by what’s happening and wants it.

That’s another thing that’s great in the film, it subtly and accurately shows feamle desire and pleasure. The Piano could be at times considered quite steamy, but not because you see all that much but rather how what you see is shown.

Focused on the emotions , and often the joy of the moment. That moment in which Banes lifts Ada’s skirt to pleasure her is signifcant, there’s urgency and laughs, at just how difficult it is to lift.

It recognises that sometimes sex isn’t always perfectly in sync and sometimes just funny, but more importantly here fun. One of my problems, with the sex scenes in some films, is that there’s always taken so terribly seriously...

And it’s quite surprising that given the film’s age, that scene still feels so incredible refreshing. It is just like Holly Hunter’s performance, that makes the film, literally quitely brilliant.

Hunter learned to play the piano herself, so whenever she plays it (sometimes only as backgorund music) it sounds genuinely beautiful and moving, and like someone with actual passion for music is playing.

For an actress playing someone mute, must be hard but Hunter handles it beutifully, never laying it on to thick. But rather knows how to sublty convye emotion through her face and body at each moment, we can read from her face what she is feeling or how she is interpreting a certain situation, it’s fascinating to watch.

The character of Ada is not simple one. She seems like a quiet, calm and reserved woman and seems to enjoy a certain isolation. Or rather is revealed to perhaps enjoy the company of those she likes, and doesn’t have to pretend to.

As soon as someone does something she doesn’t like, she clearly lets this be known, indicating a fierce pride. And Hunter shows that beautifully, just with one look Ada can seem to shimmer with rage and indignation. The Piano is ultimately a fascinating look at gender and societal norms, and a beautiful ode to the priceless freedom of loving passionately and who we chose.

“Ada, I'm unhappy. 'Cause I want you. 'Cause my mind has seized on you and can think of nothing else. This is why I've suffered. I am sick with longing. I don't eat, I don't sleep.”

#retrospective review #longread #female director #women in film #the piano #the piano 1993 #the piano movie #the piano film #jane campion #holly hunter #anna paquin #harvey keitel #sam neil #period dramas #movies #films #reviews #movie reviews #movie review #film review #analysis #movie analysis #new zealand cinema #kiwi cinema #cinema #filmista

[youholditalltogether]

On attachment

Excerpt from Chapter 18 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

Several of Casey’s friends had formed a bluegrass band called the Itchy Mountain Men. They developed quite a following, landing gigs, performing on the radio, and even cutting a CD. Casey considered herself a groupie.

They had a gig at Old St. Hilary’s Church in Tiburon. Built in 1888, a good century before that finger of land became populated with multimillion-dollar homes, it was a simple Carpenter Gothic-style chapel that seated about a hundred people.

They were to play on Saturday, and Casey spent most of the afternoon obsessing over how best to doll herself up for a special night out. Her floor was littered with outfits. She summoned Erika - who was suffering from a virus - for help, only to banish her moments later when she couldn’t magically make Casey look “gorgeous enough.” Casey called off the entire evening, dissolving into tears in her room, and then pulled herself back together.

The show started at 9:00 and it was 8:15. She was supposed to be picked up by her girlfriends at 8:30. The last fifteen minutes were a frantic rush to finish up hair, makeup, and the third outfit, which was also the first outfit - the usual tomato-colored quilted hoodie, skinny jeans, suede boots, and a touch of Eau de Perfume.

At 8:25, Casey’s tears were gone, and she was happy, ready, and waiting by the front door for her ride. Then she blurted out, “You guys should come!”

We were taken aback. For so long Casey had fought to distance herself from us. Erika was too sick to leave the house. I was thrilled to be invited, but what was the protocol? Should I pretend not to know her?

“Dad, you’ll have to take a separate car.”

I was still happy to accept her invitation. “Of course, honey.”

Old St. Hilary’s was full to capacity by the time I arrived. Body heat generated more than sufficient warmth on that cold January night. The air in the chapel was thick and noisy with anticipation as I made my way from the front door to the end of the pews where I hoped to find a seat. I saw familiar faces in the crowd from church or school, all the way back to Casey’s kindergarten class.

I took a seat where I could see the stage and peer over the people in front of me to look for Casey. I caught her at the foot of the stage with her girlfriends, chatting contentedly, falling into them and laughing. It was heartening to see her so genuinely happy. But I was afraid she’d see me, so I ducked down. I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends.

Hidden by the people in front of me, I watched as she broke off her conversation, turned around, and craned her neck in my direction. She spotted me in the crowd, lit up, and didn’t hide her face. Instead she waved excitedly in my direction.

I must have been starved for her affection like a lovesick boy, because all I could think about was that she’d acknowledged me. I contemplated for a moment the years of fighting, the ugliness, the crying, the worrying, and the hurtful words. But all she had to do was acknowledge my existence as her dad in a crowd and I’d forget everything.

She’d be fine.

I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

Chapter 19 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

In the days following the horrific morning in January 2009 - just weeks after the concert at Old St. Hilary’s - I’d become obsessed with a single question:

Why?

I drifted through each day and went to bed each night thinking about her, torturing myself with guilt, drowning in soul-crushing grief. Sometimes, as if a protective mechanism in my brain had kicked in, I imagined that this was all a dream. I’d wake up to find her asleep in her room. Then I’d suffer a jolt to the chest.

The Coast Guard called off the search for her body after just two days; something about the currents being too strong - the ocean would be Casey’s grave.

I felt a reflexive gag as I wrote her obituary.

I endlessly relived and dissected the events of the weekend before her death. Erika and I both had been fighting with Casey, starting with something seemingly trivial - a rude remark or refusal to clean up after herself; I hardly even remember. Things spun out of control. As tension mounted between us, Casey had spat out, “Asshole! Motherfucker!” She threatened to run away and live on the streets.

And my response? I got in her face and yelled at her like a drill sergeant, “Good! Go ahead!” I slammed her door, leaving her alone in her room, sobbing convulsively.

Later that night, I passed through the living room on my way to bed. She sat curled up on the sofa, staring hard at the TV, her eyes red and swollen from crying. We exchanged frosty glances.

And that was the last time I saw her.

~

That last ugly exchange screamed through my head. If I hadn’t yelled at her, she might not have been so upset. If I hadn’t ignored her on my way to bed, I might have thought twice, taken back my harsh words, and told her I didn’t mean those nasty things. If I hadn’t slept that extra half hour the next morning, I might have gotten to her room sooner, seen the note, and alerted the police in time.

But I did none of those things.

We’d had knock-down, drag-out fights since Casey was in grade school and they never ended in a catastrophe like this. She’d usually stomp off to her room. There were no clues that weekend that could have shed light on how she’d shifted so suddenly from “infuriated at Dad” to suicidal.

~

Some people suspected that drugs had played a role in Casey’s suicide, but Erika and I had our doubts. Despite our numerous busts, we’d never seen her out-of-control stoned or drunk, and she’d never been to rehab. She wasn’t on any prescription medication at the time and wasn’t out partying Monday night. Early Tuesday morning, she managed to drive the Saab to the bridge. The last video images captured her smoking a cigarette and jogging out onto the pedestrian walkway - not exactly the kind of behavior I’d associate with someone high on drugs. She easily climbed over that four-foot railing and, according to the police report, stood for ten to fifteen seconds before stepping off to her death. What could have gone through her mind in those crucial seconds before she made that fatal choice?

~

Casey’s friends were as shell-shocked as we were. After her memorial service at St. Stephen’s Church in Belvedere, an event that drew an overflow crowd, there was a reception in the parish hall. It was an awkward affair, with other parents struggling for words. It seemed we’d become separated by a glass wall. Was it pity, empathy, judgment, or terror that was in their faces? We couldn't tell. Perhaps the suicide of a child was just too toxic for people to handle. It raised the horrifying specter of contagion.

As the adults drifted away, Casey’s friends circled around us. The collateral damage from her death was etched into their faces. They seemed to be looking for something from us. Perhaps they wanted to talk.

“Do you guys know anything about why she did it?” I asked.

They shook their heads and mumbled a collective “No.”

Why would she have kept her close friends in the dark? “I don’t get it. She was so close to freedom. I thought that’s what she wanted.”

Everyone stared at the floor until her friend Julian spoke. “I don't think that Casey had any intention of going to Bennington.”

Erika and I exchanged startled glances. “What makes you say that” I asked.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I think she just wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she could get in.”

Julian made an interesting point. But why would someone get what they wanted and then throw it all away?

...

I’d always thought that if someone was bent on taking his or her life, nothing would stop them. But I’ve since learned that suicide is often impulsive - a transient urge. Once the impulse passed and the victim had an opportunity to reconsider, the chances were good that he or she wouldn’t try again.

But Casey did try again. Less than thirty-six hours after she’d sent that text she went back. Her jump - her despair - had not been impulsive. There was something deeper.

...

Chapter 21 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

A man receives only what he is ready to receive, whether physically or intellectually or morally, as animals conceive at certain seasons their kind only. We hear and apprehend only what we already half know . . . Every man thus tracks himself through life, in all his hearing and reading and observation and travelling. His observations make a chain. The phenomenon or fact that cannot in any wise be linked with the rest of what he has observed, he does not observe. By and by we may be ready to receive what we cannot now.

- Henry David Thoreau

I had the first draft of Casey's story finished by the time I'd met with Dr. Palmer and Dianne. Other than recounting Erika's and my journey to Poland, there were only glancing references to and speculation about the effects on Casey's behavior of her abandonment and adoption. They were never pursued or treated seriously, even after Dianne had raised the issue in passing. It just seemed inconceivable to me that Casey's infancy had anything to do with her later life and death. After all, I reasoned that I had no memory of my own life before the age of seven other than from photographs and home movies. How could she?

...

It wasn't until our coach critiqued my draft that she found the story I had completely missed. It was that glancing reference Dianne made in our last meeting after Casey had quit therapy four years earlier, in the spring of 2007.

Attachment disorder.

...

I sat in my home office in front of my computer and Googled attachment disorder. The first hit brought me to Wikipedia:

Attachment disorder is a disorder of mood, behavior, and social relationships arising from a failure to form normal attachments to primary caregivers in early childhood. Such a failure would result from unusual early experiences of neglect, abuse, or abrupt separation from caregivers in the first three years of life.

Then I searched a related term, reactive attachment disorder, or RAD:

Children with RAD are presumed to have grossly disturbed internal working models of relationships, which may lead to interpersonal and behavioral difficulties in later life. There are few studies of long-term effects, but the opening of orphanages in Eastern Europe in the early 1990s provided opportunities for research on infants and toddlers brought up in very deprived conditions.

...

I searched and sifted through mounds of data and studies from sources ranging from attachment experts and clinicians to blog posts by adoptive parents. A behavioral profile of the adopted child began to emerge.

Emotional Regulation: Because of the absence of the modulating influence of a dedicated caregiver in infancy, the adopted child frequently has a low tolerance for frustration, ineffective coping skills and impulse control, and trouble self-soothing. She can be clingy, hyperreactive, quick to anger or bursting into tears over what others might consider insignificant or nonexistent slightls. It can be difficult to calm her with logic or discipline. She may have out-of-control, prolonged tantrums long past toddlerhood that are disproportionate to circumstances, giving the appearance of emotional immaturity.

Control: Abandoned in infancy, the adopted child has learned early not to trust. Controlling her environment and distancing others around her - especially caregivers - become paramount as a way to protect herself from further abandonment. This can affect her social realm, where she must navigate relationships and read social cues. She may feel threatened by others, have trouble tolerating relationships or participating in competitive games other than on her own terms. She can be a sore loser when things don't go her way. She may have trouble sharing toys, food, or friends, long past what is age-appropriate. She may lack cause-and-effect thinking and blame others for her mistakes. Convinced perhaps that caregivers are unavailable and untrustworthy, she might avoid asking for help. She might be seen as bossy, but not to everyone. She can be manipulative - extremely charming, in fact, even indiscriminately affectionate, toward strangers - but cool and remote at home.

Transitions: Because of her need for control, the adopted child can have difficulties with transitions, especially when they come unexpectedly. She can't easily "go with the flow." Rather, she does best in environments of structure, predictability, and regularity. Changes in routine - such as transitions from the school year to summer, vacations, and holidays - are times of great stress and acting out.

Discipline: Trust, control, and discipline go hand in hand for the adopted child. She may display a pattern of disobedient, defiant, and hostile behavior toward authority figures that goes beyond the norm, giving the appearance of being unduly stubborn and strong-willed. Epic battles can erupt over the most trivial things.

Self-Image: The adopted child whose needs are not met in infancy builds up a pessimistic and hopeless view of herself, her family, and society. She may be uncomfortable with physical closeness or intimacy. She can hear compliments from parents yet feel no association. She's not worthy of love or respect, and may have enclosed her heart in a vault and fought to deny access to anyone who truly loves her. "I love you" can strike terror in her heart. She can't feel love, believe that it hurts, and wants nothing of it. She may manifest destructive behaviors such as self-mutilation, eating disorders, and suicidal tendencies.

A simple Google search explained everything about casey. The uncontrollable tantrums and crying jags. Her lack of patience, whether waiting an extra minute in her high chair for some ice cream or, years later, learning to skate or snowboard. Her tendency to be thin-skinned at home with no tolerance for the most benign joke or jab aimed at her . And my reaction to this? Out of sheer frustration, I told her to stop crying and grow up, and act her age.

Great job, Dad.

She didn't handle threesomes well and would stomp home in tears from a friend's house feeling left out or slighted, losing it when something didn't go her way . . . Power struggles erupted over the most ridiculous things - Casey, please put your dirty dish in the sink; Casey, please don't leave your wet towel on the bathroom floor; Casey, please take Igor for a walk. We were stuck in a never-ending cycle of time-outs, withheld privileges, abandoned reward programs, groundings, and empty threats to spend her college fund on a year in purgatory. We resorted to spanking her, even threatening to hit her, violating every tenet of good parenting and giving her more reason to despise us.

And transitions? Maybe Bennington was the last straw. I thought about Julian's theory at the memorial that Casey had no intention of going; she just wanted to prove a point. For all her bluster about Bennington, I could see how she could have been terrified. She was a creature of habit, had never been away by herself (except for the Alaska trip), never shared a bedroom or bathroom. At home, she had some measure of safety and privacy where she could unleash her rages and tantrums without fear of repercussions. At school, there would be no place to hide and unload in private. She'd be vulnerable, exposed.

Her issues with self-image went far beyond teenage angst. She seemed to loathe herself. But in retrospect, it was almost impossible to distinguish among the typical insecurities of a teenager, attachment issues from infancy, and dangerous suicidal tendencies when the symptoms looked so much alike. It would be impossible to treat every single raging, sullen teen moping around the house as a potential suicide risk (indeed, but the risk is nonetheless present!).

I had stumbled upon something big almost by accident, something that had been staring us in the face for years, and everyone had been blind to it. Casey was alone, in pain and unable to trust, and we couldn't see it. In her fragile state, there wasn't enough to live for, not enough for her to stay in the game, to see through the rough patches. Her perception of the future was bleak, hopeless.

. . .

Chapter 22 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

I scoured Marin County and the Internet for every book and article I could find on attachment. I contacted experts on adoption and attachment issues. Several of them agreed to talk to me about the disorder and what was being done to help the children and their parents. Nearly all of the experts were either adoptive parents who struck out on their own as I did, or were adoptees trying to understand themselves.

I learned that attachment begins with the trusting bond formed between a child and mother or other primary caregiver during infancy. This bond becomes a blueprint for all future relationships. The British psychiatrist John Bowlby, widely considered to be the founding father of attachment theory, says that at birth a baby cannot automatically self-regulate. Her emotional state is as simple as stressed or not stressed. When she is stressed - from hunger, a wet diaper, insufficient sleep, or fear - she cries. She is brought back into balance when the caregiver responds with soothing sounds, gentle touch, and loving looks.

Nancy Newton Verrier, an adoption specialist in Lafayette, California, provided me with her own analogy of mother-child separation. "It's very unnatural to separate babies and mothers," she said. "You can't adopt a kitten or puppy for about either weeks, in order to give the babies time to wean off their mothers, but we give away human babies time to wean off their mothers, but we give away human babies to strangers as early as birth." I never thought of it that way, and yet it seemed so obvious. Why would we treat animals with more deference than humans?

An infant left alone, with no instinctive soothing mechanism, lives in a state of prolonged fear and hyperarousal. Unable to summon help or physically escape, the infant's only protection from this unendurable state is to emotionally withdraw.

Amy Klatzkin is a marriage and family therapist intern I met with at the Child Trauma Research Centre at UCSF/San Francisco General Hospital. She is also an adoptive mother.

"There's only one thing worse than an abusive relationship, even if it's harmful," she said. "And that's no relationship at all, just nothingness."

I saw Casey alone in her crib in the orphanage as Amy continued. "Casey was probably getting sustenance but no connection, not even a tiny attachment. People come and go, and you never know if they'll be back. They're all equally distant and interchangeable to her."

She went on to talk about another kind of separation - the moment the child left the orphanage system with her adoptive parents. There was an element of predictability left behind - familiar sensations, sounds, and smells - for something unknown with two complete strangers. To ease that separation, Ms. Klatzkin offered a good piece of advice: leave the child in her clothes from the orphanage, even if they're dirty or smelly. "Let them have some continuity," she said. "It's our instinct to cling."

In High Risk: Children Without a Conscience, the clinical psychologists Ken Majid and Carole McKelvey wrote: "If a child does not form a loving bond with the mother, she does not develop an attachment to the rest of mankind, and literally does not have a stake in humanity. Incomprehensible pain is forever locked in her soul because of the abandonment she suffered as an infant."

Incomprehensible pain. My daughter. The awful wailing behind her door.

So profound is the effect of institutionalization that Dr. Jerri Ann Jenista, pediatrician and writer in the field of adoption medical health, suggests that all institutionalized orphans be considered at risk for attachment issues.

The longer they stay in the institution, the greater the damage. "We now know that if the child is adopted within the first year, the adverse effects of institutionalization are not too difficult to treat," explained Dr. Robert Marvin, the director of the Mary D. Ainsworth Child-Parent Attachment Clinic at the University of Virginia Medical Center. "But for a child like Casey, adopted at fourteen months, there's already been a fair amount of psychological and brain developmental damage that leads to very unusual behavior." In fact, studies have shown that institutionalized children have measurably different brain structures from those raised in a family. Researchers have found striking abnormalities in tissues that transmit electrical messages across the brain, perhaps explaining some of the dysfunctions seen in neglected and orphaned children.

The effects of institutionalization rarely go away. Parents of these kids find that depression, moodiness, self-mutilation, screaming fits, defiance, and academic struggles can be "normal" parts of life. Some children leave home and break contact with their adoptive families. Job instability, unplanned pregnancies, suicide attempts, and stints in disciplinary, rehab, and psychiatric programs are not uncommon.

Patricia, the adoptive mother of a boy from southern Poland, wrote to me that her son - then an eight-year-old - was at the emotional level of a fiver-year-old. Though he had recovered from early developmental delays, he was still prone to meltdowns, anxiety attacks, and struggles with self-esteem.

An adoptive mother of a girl from northwestern Russia wrote that her daughter was born to alcoholic parents and was unschooled and neglected until she was placed for adoption at age seven. Her adoptive mother received her at age eleven with a range of challenges, from growth deficiencies to language delays and learning disabilities. At the age of eighteen, she had the emotional maturity of a nine-year-old. The slightest provocation could send her into a rage or sobbing fits. Her parents feared that she couldn't be trusted on her own.

Of course, this is, for many parents, only part of the story. As one mother wrote about her troubled daughter from Russia, "She has brought more love into my life than I ever thought possible."  

My reaction to these difficult stories was envy. Their children were still alive. My daughter was dead. I had failed in my first duty as a father, to keep her safe. The information I needed to keep her alive was out there, but it was just beyond my reach. It was in the library and on the Internet.

I had never thought to look.

Chapter 23 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

If we could turn back the clock, there is so much that we would have done differently. Casey's life didn't have to end so abruptly and tragically.

I now see a very different person on the other side of that battered bedroom door. Not an angry, misbehaving teenager bent on tormenting her parents, but a child suffering unfathomable pain for whom comfort was out of reach.

She tried to speak to us but couldn't get through. We couldn't hear her, couldn't understand her, or tuned her out as the decibels rose. Likewise, we tried to speak to her, but our words neve reached her. Erika and I were desperate to love her but she had trouble letting us in. We reacted to our communication void with frustration, shutting each other out. That was a fatal mistake whose consequences we couldn't possibly know. We had no idea how far out on a ledge Casey was.

On the surface, everything appeared normal; in fact, better than normal. She'd gotten into her dream school, yet that wasn't enough to dent the iceberg of agony that sat below the surface, that she kept hidden from everyone. Only occasionally did she give a hint of her true feelings. Her cries for help were too faint for people to hear, so she weighed the options - live in pain or choose death.

Erika and I were blind from the outset. I thought about the morning we picked Casey up from the orphanage. We were so intent on changing her into some nice, clean girlie clothes that it never dawned on us to ask if she had something she clutched in her crib - a pillow, a stuffed animal, a blanket? For all I know now, we'd left something behind that was indispensable to her, further compounding the distress. To ease the shock of this transition, we should have asked for an article of clothing, a plaything, something she might have snuggled with to keep her company and have something familiar to hold on to, but we didn't.

In their two books, Adopting the Hurt Child and Parenting the Hurt Child, Dr, Gregory Keck and Regina Kupecky note that adoptive parents want to believe that a sound attachment had formed with former caregivers, in a sort of turnkey process that was readily transferable to them. The adoption becomes a cure-all for the child's difficulties.

So it was for us, we thought. Overjoyed at her astonishing progress in our first few days together, camped out in a cramped hotel room in Warsaw, Erika and I became convinced that Casey wasn't a special needs child at all. She had just been understimulated in the orphanage; nothing that two loving parents couldn't fix. We were part of a fairy tale - two able-bodied Americans rescuing a Polish orphan from her caring but impoverished birth mother, who wanted a better life for her daughter.

We treated Casey as if she were our new pet. She was in good American hands. Just feed her, burp her, change her diaper, bounce her around, and park her in front of the TV when Mom and Dad need a rest. Then there were the outbursts.

I know now that adoptive parents who view their children's disruptive behavior as just normal growing pains are ignoring a time bomb. They need to distinguish between the physical and emotional age of their child and adapt their parenting expectations to the child's emotional age, that emotional immaturity I'd read about and, of course, had seen in Casey.

We should have had her assessed. Ray Kinney, a director and staff psychologist at Cornerstone Counseling Services in Wisconsin, spoke to me about the importance of assessment for children who have lived in orphanages. Having seen hundreds of deprived children over thirty-five years of clinical practice, he said that this was a crucial prerequisite to determining an appropriate intervention strategy.

That first night in the hotel room in Warsaw, when she was inconsolable, rocking herself to sleep, we just wanted her to quiet down so that we could get some rest. Instead of parking her in her stroller in front of a blaring TV - something she'd probably never seen before - we should have taken her into bed with us, held her and soothed her. If it were possible, we should have held her for our whole first month together without putting her down. Maybe we would have had a different result. What she needed then was lots of human touch.

From the moment we brought Casey into our home, it seemed as though we did everything wrong. We assumed that the past would fade into oblivion; nurture would prevail over nature. We took our parenting cues from the pop culture experts.

As a toddler, we tried to teach Casey manners, patience, and independence. When she acted out inappropriately and threw temper tantrums, we scolded and punished her. But we failed to see what was at the root of her outbursts, and our reactions only made matters worse. Rather than sending her off by herself, we should have stayed with her, helped her calm down and self-soothe. She needed to know that Mom and Dad would always be there for her unconditionally.

When Casey entered school, we were mystified by what appeared to be a split personality - a perfect angel at school and a defiant, immature brat at home. We consulted family, friends, teachers, and guidance counselors, and were told that Casey was strong-willed and a bit high-strung; she'd grow out of it.

Erika and I felt that we were the problem. We spoiled her. We were inconsistent. We needed to be tougher with her. So we read books such as Raising Your Spirited Child, tried reward systems and used TV, the computer, the playdaytes as leverage for good behavior. We blamed each other for our lousy parenting skills and our inability to get our daughter to mind her parents like everyone else's kids did. We didn't realize that the provocation and aggression we saw in her may have been caused by her anxiety about further rejection, something she may not have understood herself.

Nancy Verrier told me that the adopted child can push for rejection even though that's the opposite of what she wants. She constantly tests her parents to see if they'll reject her, just to get the inevitable over with. As she tests her parents' commitment, often playing into their own insecurities about being good enough, the parents become defensive and retaliatory instead of understanding and steadfast. Their reactions can provoke the very outcome she feared in the first place - being sent to a residential treatment center or boarding school, or being kicked out onto the street.

~

A 2008 white paper, "Therapeutic Parenting," prepared by the Association for the Treatment and Training in the Attachment of Children (ATTACh), begins with the following message: . . . Parenting a child who has a disorder of attachment is the hardest job you will ever have. . . . It requires you to give and give, without receiving much in return. . . . It requires rethinking your parenting instincts. . . . It means making conscious, therapeutic parenting decisions . . . [and having a] constant focus on the deeper meaning of your child's behavior, so that you respond to the causes, needs, and motivations of your child. It is exhausting. It is isolating, as family and friends tend to keep their distance, uncomfortable with the drama that surrounds these children.

Heather Forbes is an internationally published author and consultant, adoptive mother, and cofounder of the Beyond Consequences Institute in Boulder, Colorado. She said that her work is geared toward healing the parent-child relationship, with emphasis on the parents, because she believes that the child's healing process must come from them rather than the therapist. "Parents who are strong in who they are, even if the child is rejecting or defiant, don't have to take things personally and love unconditionally."

Like the other experts I talked to, she urged parents to focus on the child's perspective rather than their own. What is driving my child's behavior? Why is she stressed out and acting this way? No matter how unpleasant the message, parents should give the child free rein to vent, because it's important for her to be heard. Good manners and appropriate language can be worked on later.

"All these kids feel like Casey," she told me. "Hopelessly flawed. They can't be fixed. These feelings never go away. It wasn't that you didn't love Casey; she just didn't get it the right way." In the early 2000s, Dr. Marvin, along with several colleagues from the Marycliff Institute in Spokane, Washington, developed the "Circle of Security," a protocol to diagnose attachment disorder and design individualized intervention programs aimed at attachment-caregiving relationships for both toddlers and preschool children. The process, which takes place over twenty weekly group sessions, is designed to help parents gain a deeper understanding of their children and themselves, and to become more accurate and empathic in reading their children's complex and subtle cues - anger at a parent when the truth could be entirely different, or defiance masking an ability to adapt to a new routine. With a better understanding of their children's behavior, parents are shown how to apply more "user-friendly" attachment techniques.

"Our coaching helps parents shift their focus from stopping undesirable behavior to moving in to calm the child when she's out of control and can't self-soothe." Dr. Marvin explained. For example, instead of isolating the child as punishment for misbehavior, stay with her, acknowledge the upset, let her be herself. Sometimes, on some subconscious level, this behavior may be a reaction to her early abandonment. Adoptive parents need to understand and acknowledge that first loss.

"When parents follow that approach they start to see these behaviors decrease very quickly." He insisted that children, when distressed, respond much better to parents when they take charge and soothe rather than discipline, as one would a baby - the baby that child used to be and, in a way, still is.

Jane Brown is an adoption therapist in Ontario, Canada, who encourages adoptees to explore through playful group activities what it means to be adopted, how to build a self-concept as an adoptee, and how to be in the world. In a safe group, the children are more willing to take risks and model for one another, sometimes participating simply by listening and watching. She gives the youngsters exercises to encourage them to explore their beliefs about what happened to them, how they felt about their birth parents, why they'd adopted a baby, all in an attempt to lower their defenses and get their story out.

~

We'd spun tales about Casey's adoption from the very beginning. When she showed no curiosity about her past or birth family, we took her at her word. It never occurred to us that Casey's rages might've been rooted in suppressed feelings about her early abandonment. We tried to protect her from the pain of knowing about her stillborn twin, but maybe deep down she knew.

We looked at her birthdays through our eyes, not hers. They might have been yet another reminder of loss, not celebration. That would have explained her tendency to sabotage the entire occasion. It was probably Casey's instinct to run from strong emotions, but what she really needed was help from an understanding professional to piece together the narrative of her past and a healthier sense of herself as a whole person.

Ray Kinney claimed that, all too often, parents sugarcoat the adoption story to avoid inflicting more pain on their child. He takes a different approach - helping the child reconstruct her adoption story. She needs to know that her experience was real, and her constant and conflicting feelings about it are appropriate and legitimate. By getting the story out honestly - even if it isn't pretty - the child has a more complete sense of herself.

"They want the whole story, and when they hear it, maybe they can understand what it was like to be in their mother's shoes," he said. "When we let the child understand the trauma she's had. what happened to her as a baby, and how that's played out for her entire life, she can start to gain control over her emotions."

The onset of adolescence, middle school, and high school adds another layer of intensity into the mix. When Casey's tantrums became profanity-laced rages punctuated with I hate you, we tried to control her with endless groundings and withheld privileges until we admitted defeat. The fact that she seemed impervious to discipline we took as a personal failure. But her rages may have had little to do with us. Her inner existence was a toxic stew of fear, stress, loneliness, and self-hatred that she hinted at only on LiveJournal and the message board.

~

Dr. David Brodzinsky, a professor emeritus at Rutgers University, founding director of the Donaldson Adoption Institute, and a coauthor of the 1992 book Being Adopted: The Lifelong Search for Self, wrote about the effects of long-term institutionalization.

For children placed early, the sense of loss emerges gradually as the child's cognitive understanding of adoption begins to unfold. For children adopted later, feelings of loss can be more traumatic and overt, particularly by middle school when the youngster begins to reflect on what it means to be adopted, perhaps associating it with feeling odd, different.

At the extreme, resentment and rage against the adoptive parents may erupt from feelings of shame and guilt about who she is - unlovable - to which she may respond with destructive outbursts. As one adoptee said: "Being chosen by your adoptive parents means nothing compared to being un-chosen by your birth mother."

Dr. Brodzinsky cautions that there is a wide range in the expression of adoption-related grief, from only a slight recognition of pain to something more frequent and intense. Often the sense of loss can be masked by intense anger, denial, emotional distance, and exterior bravado. But beneath that tough suit of armor lies a child who has been deeply hurt by life. She is the most vulnerable and difficult to reach.

Chapter 24 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks 

I began to understand what it might have felt like to be Casey - the baby screaming her outrage from her crib at being left behind, thrust into the arms of two strangers from a foreign country who couldn't comfort her no matter how well-intentioned they were.

She despised them for their lack of understanding, and for being so foolish as to love someone like her. So she put on a show of bravado, suited up her armor, and pretended that she needed no one, especially them. But at the same time, she might have looked at her behavior - something she just hinted at with Dr. Palmer - and asked herself, "What the hell is wrong with me?"

She hid behind that suit of armor, lashing out at the only two people who were safe - her adoptive parents. I'd come to learn that parenting a child who had suffered so much trauma in infancy was completely counterintuitive. The time-tested methods of raising and disciplining a securely attached child that we'd learned from Dr. Spock, T. Berry Brazelton, and Dr. Phil were woefully inadequate for a child like Casey. "Sometimes you have to parent in a way that's good for your child even if it doesn't feel good to you," Ray Kinney said.

Dr. Keck recommended that infants shouldn't be left alone to "cry it out." As I'd heard from others, the parent should stay with her if she was screaming, crying, and inconsolable.

There was that disastrous trip to the Yerba Buena skating rink when Casey was eight. We left her alone in her room to cry it out because that's what she said she wanted. If we'd known better, we would have overridden her.

Erika could have rubbed her back and massaged her feet, cooing in a soft voice the way she did when Casey was younger, chanting a Polish verse that Casey loved as an infant. It was about a little spider sneaking up on her, crawling up her tummy. Erika learned it from her mother, and my mother had a similar verse, but instead of a spider it was a creeping mouse. I imagined Casey's face lighting up in anticipation of what was to come when Erika's fingers would pounce on her neck with the dreaded spider tickle, eliciting her delicious laugh: Ha ha ha!

Dr. Keck wrote that the child should be fed on demand to establish a pattern that her needs will be met and help her develop a sense of trust that relief is there when she's distressed. Day care was to be avoided, if possible, as it could reinforce the pattern of abandonment by the primary caregiver.

Thank God, we got one thing right.

We continued to send Casey to therapists who treated her as they did other patients, repeatedly focusing on corrective behavior rather than getting to the core - until Casey had had enough.

Now I don't blame her. She was right. Their kind of therapy was a waste of time.

Unfortunately, in our blindness, Erika and I were enraged. We saw this as just one more of her infuriating acts of defiance and our failure to control her. We didn't realize that she might have just given up on herself.

Children like Casey have to be treated differently - different therapies, different parenting - if they are to survive and thrive. The professionals to whom we'd dragged her over the years were not equipped to understand, deal with, or even recognize her unique life experience. They resorted to the only treatments they'd been taught. After all, they'd worked for their other young patients. Why not Casey?

A blog post titled "When Therapists Don't Get It," on a Bay Area adoption website, recounted the frustration of an adoptive mother seeking help for her son through traditional therapy channels. She reported that even therapists skilled at working with troubled children couldn't help and may have made matters worse. As I'd heard before, they focused on her son's undesirable behavior, as if correcting the symptoms would cure the disease.

She wrote: "Parents seek out experts because they want to help their child to be happy and emotionally healthy. To constantly go to therapists and be told that what is 'wrong' with their child is the parents' fault is infuriating. FInding a therapist who gets it is the key to helping everyone in the family."

I talked with Heather Forbes about our disappointments with therapists.

"Unfortunately, I hear stories like this all the time," she assured me. "If you don't get to that emotional place - the depth of the heart and soul where she felt rejected - you'll probably never have success."

There are thousands of public and private adoption agencies and attorneys available to prospective parents in the United States, but post-adoption resources are sorely lacking. In the San Francisco Bay Area, the fifth-largest metropolitan area in the United States, with more than eight million people and a large international adoption community, there are only a handful of specialized adoption therapists. I'd learned from my own quest that finding them is a challenge.

If only I could have found someone who truly understood Casey and connected with her in a way none of our therapists had, maybe she would have developed some trust and opened up. If Casey had been willing to participate in group therapy with other adopted teens, maybe she wouldn't have felt so alone, even if she did nothing more than listen. The few clues we found after her death suggested that she had searched for a community of similarly troubled teenagers. She wanted to connect with others. I talked at length with Jane Brown about her adopted daughter from China. When she was nine years old, her psychiatrist put her on a mood stabilizer to manage her violent mood swings. Within a week, the medication took the edge off her rages and her tantrums subsided. Once she was calm, the psychiatrist was able to work on her psychological and behavioral issues.

I'd looked at medication for Casey as a last resort, frightened of the potential side effects. Would things have turned out differently if we had introduced medication to her much earlier than seventeen?

"These kids are forever more vulnerable and reactive to stress, but they can learn to deal with it. Medication can help." Brown said. "Attachment can be a piece of the puzzle, but it may not be the whole puzzle."

There was another thing we did right - the cardinal rule. I learned from Nancy Verrier - never threaten abandonment

.

Not that we didn't think about sending Casey off to rehab or reform school, as other parents had. But my consideration at the time was more practical than altruistic; reform schools are every bit as expensive as elite private colleges.

Perhaps if we had masted just one of the parenting techniques I'd learned about, or used every opportunity to remind her how much she mattered, or responded to I'll kill myself if. . . not with silence, but with an impassioned accounting of an empty world without her, we could have kept Casey alive.

This didn't have to happen.

Ray Kinney told me that the effects of institutionalization never completely disappear. "These kids can learn to not let those wounds control their lives."

Ultimately, Casey might have left home with better coping skills, a healthier self-image, and the confidence that she had two parents whom she could trust to be there whenever she needed them.

[ladyfogg]

China Shop

China Shop

Fic Summary: John visits you at work hoping for a little information, and perhaps some special attention. Constantine Oneshot Masterpost.

A/N: It’s been a really long time and it feels good to be writing again. This one came to me out of the blue and I ended up writing the whole first draft in like, two hours. So, yay me! Fic Song.

Fic Rating: NC-17

Fic Pairing: John Constantine/Female Reader

Fic Warnings: Language & Smut

The air is thick with the scent of smoke, musk, and alcohol. Lights are dim and the slow sensual music sets the mood. Nearly every seat is filled with someone: a demon here, a sorceress there, the occasional vampire or human…

At least, that’s what you can gather from your spot onstage. As you swing your hips and twirl around the pole, you get a better view of the room. A familiar face catches your attention, though you’re too professional to let it throw you off. You don’t remember seeing him arrive, and yet there he is. Really, you shouldn’t be so surprised.

John Constantine always pops up when you least expect him.

He leans back in his seat, surveying you with those watchful eyes. A nearly finished cigarette dangles from his lips, which are turned up at the corners, fixing you with his ever present smirk.

Focusing back on the task at hand, you make your way around the stage, giving each patron their own small show. John’s is the only regular you recognize. Their cash either falls at your feet or is tucked into your g-string, when you get close enough to let them that is. Of course then you have to coyly dance away from those looking to cop a feel. When you get to John, he removes his cigarette briefly to exhale smoke, before slipping it back in.

You crawl toward him, breasts barely contained by your too small bra.

John’s smirk widens and you bite your lip, raising your eyebrow questioningly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty, offering it to you. Really? A twenty? That’s laughable. You give him a pointed look, but then he fans the bill ever so slightly and now you see two more twenties with it.

Throwing him a wink, you take the cash between your teeth, gently pulling it out of his hand as you sit back on your heels. Gaze firmly fixated on his, you tuck the money into the small pocket in your bra as you carefully slide off the stage. Other patrons hiss and make noises of disappointment at the show’s abrupt end, which you ignore in favor of taking John’s offered hand.

With a sultry smile and promising hip sway, you lead him through the throngs of people, to the private rooms in the back. He slips past you into the tiny booth and you turn to close the curtain, taking a quick look to make sure no one is watching or following. Only a security guard takes notice, though he doesn’t seem particularly interested.

Once you draw the curtains, you glance over your shoulder at John. “Wasn’t expecting you tonight, sweets,” you drawl, slowly turning around. He’s closer than you anticipate and you have to stop short so you don’t collide with him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh trust me, love. The pleasure is all mine,” John smirks. He removes his cigarette and puts it out in the nearby ashtray.

As he reaches to touch you, you place a hand on his chest and shove him so he’s sitting down. “Cameras, lovely,” you say, reaching behind you to undo the clasp of your bra. The strip of fabric falls to the floor. “No audio, but plenty of visuals.”

John gives a nod of understanding, chancing a quick glance around. You see him note where the cameras are before his attention returns to you. “How’ve you been, love?”

“Oh, you know me,” you grin, slowly swaying to the music. “What can I do for you then? You only pay for a private dance when you want something.”

“As much as I would love for this to be a social visit, sadly I am on a case,” John says, watching every movement. You step in a little closer so he’s forced to crane his neck up to look at you. “Got a few questions I’m hoping you can answer.”

“Ask away,” you say, straddling his lap, your knees pressing into the soft cushions. You can feel the heat from his skin through the thin cotton of his pants and it’s tantalizing. It conjures all sorts of memories from your past exploits.

“Looking for a bloke who comes here often,” John says. He lean back to enjoy the sight of your rolling hips. “Little blighter by the name of Anton.”

“Why? Did he cross you?” you ask.

John chuckles. “Something like that,” he says. “Had a run in a few years ago and he may know where I can find his former boss. Didn’t properly scare him off last time, so it seems he’s still skulking about.”

“Well that’s too bad,” you lament, drawing in closer. You nearly press your chest to his, but then his warm hands are slowly trailing up your thighs and you have to knock them away. “No touching, remember? Not here.”

“Sorry, love,” John grins. “Force of habit. It’s so hard not to.”

It’s your turn to laugh slightly, getting off his lap, only to turn and roll your hips backwards, taunting him. You swear you hear a sharp inhale. “Is it, Johnny?” you tease. “Is it hard?”

“Getting harder by the second. Maybe I can show you later when you get off work,” is his gruff response.

“Maybe,” you say. “So, what’s this Anton look like?”

“I’ve got a picture on my phone—”

Hearing the rustling of his pants, you turn back around and straddle his lap again. “Don’t take the phone out,” you hiss in a low voice. “Cameras, John. If they know I’m feeding you information, they’ll kill us both.”

John sighs. “You need to find a new club, love,” he says.

“Not what we’re discussing,” you remind him, placing your hands on the wall behind his head, effectively trapping his body with yours. “Describe the guy.”

“Thin, messy hair, bug eyes, twitchy,” John lists.

“That’s nearly everyone who looks humanoid,” you say.

“He’s a soul broker,” John says, though he’s become distracted by the sight of your breasts which are currently eye-level. He follows their bounce as if hypnotized. “I suspect he’s on the run from the man downstairs after he broke a contract.”

Now that does ring a bell. You vaguely recall hearing him talk to some of the other patrons about it, trying to find someone interested in hiring him so he could get back into the First’s good graces. “Oh yeah, I’ve seen him,” you say, leaning down so your forehead brushes John’s. Without warning you briefly grind down on his lap, making him gasp. His hips buck, seeking more friction, but you’re already gone, sitting up straight and raising your arms over your head. “Actually, he should be coming in soon. Want me to lure him outside for you?”

“Could you?” John asks. You see him grip the seat to keep from grabbing you like he so desperately wants. “Really need that information from him.”

“Sure thing,” you purr, spinning quickly so you can brush the front of his black pants with your backside. You glance over your shoulder to watch the expression on his face. His pupils are blown wide and his tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. “It’s going to cost you of course.”

“I thought that’s what this dance was for,” John teases.

You chuckle. “Conspiracy to interrogate a customer isn’t included,” you tell him.

“Bollocks. You’re gonna drain me dry, you are.”

You turn back to face him, this time getting closer than you’ve gotten all night. His breath practically tickles your lips as you lean in. “That’s the plan, Johnny,” you whisper. “Also, wouldn’t be the first time. Come home with me after the job and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

John’s smirk is back and he wiggles his eyebrows. “Guess that’s a ‘yes’ instead of just a maybe? I’d be a bloody lunatic to say no,” he says.

“Yes, yes you would,” you agree. “So, I’ll dance for this Anton, ask him to meet me out back, and when he shows up you do your thing. Seems straightforward.”

“You should know by now, love,” John says. “Nothing I do is ever ‘straight’.”

Laughing, you slink off his lap and extend your hand to help him to his feet. “Likewise, Johnny,” you say. “Likewise.”

Luring Anton is way easier than it probably should have been. The scrawny man is practically drooling by the time you whisper in his ear and you swear he’s going to cream himself right then. He doesn’t (you hope) and you saunter away, catching John’s eye from across the room. He throws you a wink and slips out through one of the side doors.

Once your shift is over, you head backstage to get dressed and count your tips. It takes you a while to gather yourself, so by the time you leave, it’s extremely late. Anton is waiting exactly where you told him to, and you almost feel sorry for the bastard.

Stalking towards him, you smile. “Hey there, handsome,” you say.

“Hey,” Anton says excitedly. “So we gonna do this here? I think the alley’s pretty empty. We may want to go around the corner so no one can see. How much do you want?”

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, cocking your head to the side. “Oh, you poor sap,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m sort of sorry about this.”

Anton’s eyes widen and he spins around just as John shows himself. “Hello, Anton,” he grins around a fresh cigarette. “Been a long time.”

Anton turns back to you, anger in his eyes. “You, bitch!” he snaps, and takes a swing.

Without so much as blinking, you dodge it, hands still in your pockets. “John, did you see that?” you say, eyes never leaving Anton’s face. “I think he just tried to assault me.”

Anton’s anger fades and he suddenly looks terrified, as if he just realizes the mistake he’s made. His eyes dart around the alley, looking for any means of escape and unfortunately finding none.

“That he did, love,” John says. “Really stupid idea if you ask me. And a surprising move. You must have grown some stones since the last time I saw you. Wouldn’t peg you for someone to try to take a swing, especially at a woman.”

It’s comical how quickly Anton goes down when you sink your fist into his jaw. It’s even funnier when your knee breaks his nose and he collapses in a heap on the ground. Grabbing him by the hair, you hold him up as John casually strolls forward, sending cigarette ash on the pavement with a flick of his wrist.

“What do you want from me?” Anton asks, whimpering as blood runs out of his nose. “I already did what you asked. I ate that contract.”

“That was three years ago, mate,” John says. “Water under the bridge. I do need some information from you though.”

“I don’t know anything!” Anton immediately denies, shaking his head as much as you’ll let him. Your nails are digging into his scalp and you flex your fingers threatening. He whimpers louder. “I swear I don’t!”

John laughs as he squats down to be face-to-face. “I haven’t even asked any questions, Anton,” he says. “Which leads me to believe you’re already lying to me.” He puts the cigarette back into his mouth. “Where’s Midnite? How did he contact you for a deal?”

“I don’t remember! That was years ago!” Anton babbles. “And I’m sure as hell not in touch with him. Not after you blew my deal! No one will do business with me anymore!”

“Oh boo hoo,” you mock. “Poor soul broker can’t take advantage of desperate people anymore. What a shame.”

“Says the stripper...” Anton mutters.

Anger flaring, you kneel down, grabbing his wrist with your free hand and twisting it behind his back. “Don’t you ever compare yourself to me!” you snap. “People know what they’re getting into when they watch me dance. You prey on people who are waiting for a miracle. People who don’t understand just what selling their souls mean. Because of you, they’re ripped away from their lives and sent down to hell.”

“Listen, Anton,” John snaps, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt and forcing him to look at him. “Answer my bloody questions and I won’t have my friend remove your entrails. I’ve seen her do it before. She’s lured many a men to their deaths.”

“W-What do you mean?”

“It used to be my thing,” you tell him. “Granted, they all deserved it one way or another. It’s amazing what you can do with a melodic voice and swaying hips.”

“S-She’s a S-Siren?” Anton asks fearfully.

“Ex-Siren,” you say, with a shrug. “See, Johnny here helped me escape that life. So I owe him pretty big. Especially after we had that amazing weekend together.”

“And a fair few since then.”

“Very true,” you say. You dig your nails harder into Anton’s head. “Although I may not be in that life anymore, every now and then, Anton, I get that urge—”

“Alright, alright!” Anton squeaks. “I-I-I really don’t know where Midnite is. No one has seen him in a long time. I tried to reach out hoping to beg for another job but haven’t heard anything. He gave me a burner phone eons ago that I kept just in case. But that’s all I know. I swear!”

“Where’s the phone?” John demands.

“In my pocket!” Anton exclaims.

John digs his hands into the pockets of the dirty jacket, drawing out a phone and some more cash. He tucks both into his trench coat and gives Anton a wide grin, letting smoke blow into his face. “Good boy,” he says, patting his cheek.

You slowly release Anton and just when the soul broker relaxes, you punch him hard enough to knock him out. Getting to your feet, you smile at John. “Got everything you needed?” you ask.

“And then some,” John comments, patting his pocket where the money is. He stands with a slight groan, dropping his cigarette on the ground and crushing it with his shoe. “Hungry, love? My treat.”

“Save your money. I’ve got food at home,” you say, linking your arm with his as you step over Anton’s unconscious frame. “Let’s go. I’ve got a large apartment and a brand new shower I want to show you.”

“I am all yours, love,” John says, drawing you closer.

You live quite a ways away from the club, but you don’t mind the drive this time. John can’t seem to stop grinning, regaling you with tales of his recent exploits. There’s that familiar energy in the air, the kind that lets you know you’re about to have an evening of fun.

John lets out a low whistle when he sees your place. “Just how much are you making at that club?” he asks as you drag him towards the bathroom.

“Enough,” you say. “Come on. I want to see you naked and covered with soap.”

Chuckling at your enthusiasm, John hangs back for a second, giving your hand a squeeze. “Hold on, love. Let me just call Chas real quick so he knows I’ve got the info.”

“Suit yourself,” you say, letting go of his hand and removing your jacket. It falls to the floor while you kick out of your shoes. “I’ll just start without you then.”

Clothes are stripped off and forgotten as you start the shower. The hot water feels spectacular and you take a few minutes to just stand under the spray, letting the sweat and smell of that place wash away. John’s right, you should find another club. Maybe one closer to home so you don’t have to drive across town in the dead of night. Enjoying the peace and quiet for a moment, you hum softly to yourself as you wash your hair. Eventually the humming turns into soft singing as you rinse away the suds.

The door to the bathroom opens and you glance through the glass doors as John’s warped figure makes its way towards you. Smirking to yourself, you’re pleased that your songs still call him, even if he doesn’t realize it. He wastes no time removing his clothes and slipping into the shower. Now that you’re not at work, his hands immediately reach out to slide around you, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“Bloody hell, you feel marvelous,” he coos in your ear, nuzzling your neck.

You slide a hand in his hair and turn your face to capture his lips. He tastes of cigarettes per usual, and it takes some getting used to. But his quick tongue stroking yours more than makes up for it, as do his hands as they slide up to cup your breasts. Breaking the kiss, you present your neck to him while passing the bar of soap across yourself.

He rubs the suds into a rich lather, fingers tweaking and tugging your nipples into hard nubs. You place the soap on the shelf, before covering his hands with your own to help. His mouth has found your neck and he laps away the water, one of his hands dropping between your legs.

Gasping at the touch, you grind back against him, feeling the weight of his cock pressing into the back of your thigh. Two fingers spread your slit open so a third can teasingly press inside. Instantly your knees buckle and you have to grip the shelf to keep yourself from falling. He fingers you with practiced ease, occasionally pressing down on your clit. Soon, the wetness between your thighs isn't just from the shower.

“Always so maddening when I can’t touch you proper,” John grunts.

“That’s the point,” you smirk. Turning to face him, you fling your arms around his neck, pushing until his back is pressed against the wall. “But we’re not at work anymore. You can touch me all you want. You can even fuck me. Which I highly suggest you do right this second.”

“Don’t want to play a bit first?” John teases.

“Nope, did that already,” you say. You lift your foot onto the ledge of the tub, pressing your pelvis to his. His cock jumps and brushes your folds, forcing you to bite back a whimper. “We’ll have plenty of time to play later.”

John kisses you roughly, both hands reaching down to grab your ass. Every nerve is on fire and you're so ready to let it consume you. He grinds himself between your legs vigorously, seeking the friction you so brutally denied him earlier. Suddenly, you find your roles reversed and you’re the one against the wall.

It's always such a fun game. You love how you both try to wrestle dominance from the other, pushing the other until they submit. Which never takes long, because you both enjoy it way too much.

John grips your thighs and you follow through, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist. He works his cock into you with small, careful thrusts, shifting to make sure he doesn’t slip.

Gradually you feel him fill you and it’s deliciously torturous. Your hand tangles in his wet hair as you smash your mouth to his. Tongues dancing, your bodies rock together as he starts to thrust. The weight of his body against yours makes your skin tingle, especially when those firm hands grab your hips. He withdraws a bit, only to bury himself all the way. You moan loudly, head thrown back.

John takes you against the tile, each thrust deep and oh so satisfying. But you know he can’t hold you up for very long, so before he drops you, you lower your legs to stand. The loss of him is sad, but immediately remedied when he spins you around. You bend over slightly, hands resting on the wall as John grips your waist again. He practically slams himself into you, hips making a loud slap. Water is pouring over both of you, making your movements slick and fluid.

You can’t stop your noises as John fucks you from behind. He’s also grunting, alternating between quick and drawn out thrusts. One moment he’s pounding you with animalistic ferocity, and the next he grinding into you so he’s as deep as he possibly can be. Your hands are slipping on the wet tile, but you don’t want to stop. Especially when two fingers start to furiously rub your clit.

Your vision starts to blur and you can feel your body tensing as the pleasure continues to build. His free hand slides down the dip of your spine, lifting to give your ass cheek a brief, wet slap. The prickle of pain only adds to the feeling of slick fingers tugging on your nub. Without warning, his thumb circles your pucker and with the tiniest amount of pressure, you tumble into oblivion, eyes closed as you come hard.

Body locked in place as you ride the waves of pleasure, you’re powerless to do anything other than moan while John continues to take you. It’s nearly a full two minutes before he withdraws suddenly, and you feel the warmth of his relief coat the back of your thighs, immediately washed away by the shower.

Shaking, you sink onto the floor of tub along with John, both trying to remember how to breathe properly. His kisses are sloppy and open-mouthed, but you accept them regardless, body tingling with the after effects of his talented hands and cock.

“Mmmm, that was divine,” you purr, throwing your leg over his waist.

John grins lazily, giving your backside another slap. “Always is, love,” he pants. “Always is.”

#ladyfoggdrabbles #constantine tv show fanfic #john constantine fanfic

[lastsonlost]

In the 1990s, the late Stanford neuroscientist Ben Barres transitioned from female to male. He was in his 40s, mid-career, and afterward he marveled at the stark changes in his professional life. Now that society saw him as male, his ideas were taken more seriously. He was able to complete a whole sentence without being interrupted by a man. 

A colleague who didn’t know he was transgender even praised his work as “much better than his sister’s.”Clinics have reported an increase in people seeking medical gender transitions in recent years, and research suggests the number of people identifying as transgender has risen in the past decade. 

Touchstones such as Caitlyn Jenner’s transition, the bathroom controversy, and the Amazon series “Transparent” have also made the topic a bigger part of the political and cultural conversation.But it is not always evident when someone has undergone a transition — especially if they have gone from female to male.

“The transgender guys have a relatively straightforward process — we just simply add testosterone and watch their bodies shift,” said Joshua Safer, executive director at the Center for Transgender Medicine and Surgery at Mount Sinai Health System and Icahn School of Medicine in New York. “Within six months to a year they start to virilize — getting facial hair, a ruddier complexion, a change in body odor and a deepening of the voice.”

Transgender women have more difficulty “passing”; they tend to be bigger-boned and more masculine-looking, and these things are hard to reverse with hormone treatments, Safer said. “But the transgender men will go get jobs and the new boss doesn’t even know they’re trans.”

We spoke with four men who transitioned as adults to the bodies in which they feel more comfortable. Their experiences reveal that the gulf between how society treats women and men is in many ways as wide now as it was when Barres transitioned. But their diverse backgrounds provide further insight into how race and ethnicity inform the gender divide in subtle and sometimes surprising ways.

‘I’ll never call the police again’

Trystan Cotten, 50, Berkeley, Calif.

Professor of gender studies at California State University Stanislaus and editor of Transgress Press, which publishes books related to the transgender experience. Transitioned in 2008.

Life doesn’t get easier as an African American male. The way that police officers deal with me, the way that racism undermines my ability to feel safe in the world, affects my mobility, affects where I go. Other African American and Latino Americans grew up as boys and were taught to deal with that at an earlier age. I had to learn from my black and brown brothers about how to stay alive in my new body and retain some dignity while being demeaned by the cops.

One night somebody crashed a car into my neighbor’s house, and I called 911. I walk out to talk to the police officer, and he pulls a gun on me and says, “Stop! Stop! Get on the ground!” I turn around to see if there’s someone behind me, and he goes, “You! You! Get on the ground!” I’m in pajamas and barefoot. I get on the ground and he checks me, and afterward I said, “What was that all about?” He said, “You were moving kind of funny.” Later, people told me, “Man, you’re crazy. You never call the police.”

I get pulled over a lot more now. I got pulled over more in the first two years after my transition than I did the entire 20 years I was driving before that. Before, when I’d been stopped, even for real violations like driving 100 miles an hour, I got off. In fact, when it happened in Atlanta the officer and I got into a great conversation about the Braves. Now the first two questions they ask are: Do I have any weapons in the car, and am I on parole or probation?

Race influences how people choose to transition. I did an ethnographic study of trans men and found that 96 percent of African American and Latino men want to have surgery, while only 45 percent of white respondents do. That’s because a trans history can exacerbate racial profiling. When they pat you down, if you don’t have a penis it’s going to be obvious (or if you’re a trans woman and you have a penis, that becomes obvious). If they picked you up for popping a wheelie or smoking weed, if they find out you’re trans it can be worse for you.

There are also ways in which men deal with sexism and gender oppression that I was not aware of when I was walking around in a female body. A couple of years after my transition, I had a grad student I’d been mentoring. She started coming on to me, stalking me, sending me emails and texts. My adviser and the dean — both women — laughed it off. It went on for the better part of a year, and that was the year that I was going up for tenure. It was a very scary time. I felt very worried that if the student felt I was not returning her attentions she would claim that I had assaulted her. I felt like as a guy, I was not taken seriously. I had experienced harassment as a female person at another university and they had reacted immediately, sending a police escort with me to and from campus. I felt like if I had still been in my old body I would have gotten a lot more support.

Being a black man has changed the way I move in the world. I used to walk quickly or run to catch a bus. Now I walk at a slower pace, and if I’m late I don’t dare rush. I am hyper-aware of making sudden or abrupt movements, especially in airports, train stations and other public places. I avoid engaging with unfamiliar white folks, especially white women. If they catch my eye, white women usually clutch their purses and cross the street. While I love urban aesthetics, I stopped wearing hoodies and traded my baggy jeans, oversized jerseys and colorful skullcaps for closefitting jeans, khakis and sweaters. These changes blunt assumptions that I’m going to snatch purses or merchandise, or jump the subway turnstile. The less visible I am, the better my chances of surviving.

But it’s not foolproof. I’m an academic sitting at a desk so I exercise where I can. I walked to the post office to mail some books and I put on this 40-pound weight vest that I walk around in. It was about 3 or 4 in the afternoon and I’m walking back and all of a sudden police officers drove up, got out of their car, and stopped. I had my earphones on so I didn’t know they were talking to me. I looked up and there’s a helicopter above. And now I can kind of see why people run, because you might live if you run, even if you haven’t done anything. This was in Emeryville, one of the wealthiest enclaves in Northern California, where there’s security galore. Someone had seen me walking to the post office and called in and said they saw a Muslim with an explosives vest. One cop, a white guy, picked it up and laughed and said, “Oh, I think I know what this is. This is a weight belt.”

It’s not only humiliating, but it creates anxiety on a daily basis. Before, I used to feel safe going up to a police officer if I was lost or needed directions. But I don’t do that anymore. I hike a lot, and if I’m out hiking and I see a dead body, I’ll keep on walking. I’ll never call the police again.

‘It now feels as though I am on my own’

Zander Keig, 52, San Diego

Coast Guard veteran. Works at Naval Medical Center San Diego as a clinical social work case manager. Editor of anthologies about transgender men. Started transition in 2005.

Prior to my transition, I was an outspoken radical feminist. I spoke up often, loudly and with confidence. I was encouraged to speak up. I was given awards for my efforts, literally — it was like, “Oh, yeah, speak up, speak out.” When I speak up now, I am often given the direct or indirect message that I am “mansplaining,” “taking up too much space” or “asserting my white male heterosexual privilege.” Never mind that I am a first-generation Mexican American, a transsexual man, and married to the same woman I was with prior to my transition.

I find the assertion that I am now unable to speak out on issues I find important offensive and I refuse to allow anyone to silence me. My ability to empathize has grown exponentially, because I now factor men into my thinking and feeling about situations. Prior to my transition, I rarely considered how men experienced life or what they thought, wanted or liked about their lives. I have learned so much about the lives of men through my friendships with men, reading books and articles by and for men and through the men I serve as a licensed clinical social worker.

Social work is generally considered to be “female dominated,” with women making up about 80 percent of the profession in the United States. Currently I work exclusively with clinical nurse case managers, but in my previous position, as a medical social worker working with chronically homeless military veterans — mostly male — who were grappling with substance use disorder and severe mental illness, I was one of a few men among dozens of women.

Plenty of research shows that life events, medical conditions and family circumstances impact men and women differently. But when I would suggest that patient behavioral issues like anger or violence may be a symptom of trauma or depression, it would often get dismissed or outright challenged. The overarching theme was “men are violent” and there was “no excuse” for their actions.

I do notice that some women do expect me to acquiesce or concede to them more now: Let them speak first, let them board the bus first, let them sit down first, and so on. I also notice that in public spaces men are more collegial with me, which they express through verbal and nonverbal messages: head lifting when passing me on the sidewalk and using terms like “brother” and “boss man” to acknowledge me. As a former lesbian feminist, I was put off by the way that some women want to be treated by me, now that I am a man, because it violates a foundational belief I carry, which is that women are fully capable human beings who do not need men to acquiesce or concede to them.

What continues to strike me is the significant reduction in friendliness and kindness now extended to me in public spaces. It now feels as though I am on my own: No one, outside of family and close friends, is paying any attention to my well-being.

I can recall a moment where this difference hit home. A couple of years into my medical gender transition, I was traveling on a public bus early one weekend morning. There were six people on the bus, including me. One was a woman. She was talking on a mobile phone very loudly and remarked that “men are such a–holes.” I immediately looked up at her and then around at the other men. Not one had lifted his head to look at the woman or anyone else. The woman saw me look at her and then commented to the person she was speaking with about “some a–hole on the bus right now looking at me.” I was stunned, because I recall being in similar situations, but in the reverse, many times: A man would say or do something deemed obnoxious or offensive, and I would find solidarity with the women around me as we made eye contact, rolled our eyes and maybe even commented out loud on the situation. I’m not sure I understand why the men did not respond, but it made a lasting impression on me.

I took control of my career’

Chris Edwards, 49, Boston

Advertising creative director, public speaker and author of the memoir “Balls: It Takes Some to Get Some.” Transitioned in his mid-20s.

When I began my transition at age 26, a lot of my socialization came from the guys at work. For example, as a woman, I’d walk down the hall and bump into some of my female co-workers, and they’d say, “Hey, what’s up?” and I’d say, “Oh, I just got out of this client meeting. They killed all my scripts and now I have to go back and rewrite everything, blah blah blah. What’s up with you?” and then they’d tell me their stories. As a guy, I bump into a guy in the hall and he says, “What’s up?” and I launch into a story about my day and he’s already down the hall. And I’m thinking, well, that’s rude. So, I think, okay, well, I guess guys don’t really share, so next time I’ll keep it brief. By the third time, I realized you just nod.

The creative department is largely male, and the guys accepted me into the club. I learned by example and modeled my professional behavior accordingly. For example, I kept noticing that if guys wanted an assignment they’d just ask for it. If they wanted a raise or a promotion they’d ask for it. This was a foreign concept to me. As a woman, I never felt that it was polite to do that or that I had the power to do that. But after seeing it happen all around me I decided that if I felt I deserved something I was going to ask for it too. By doing that, I took control of my career. It was very empowering.

Apparently, people were only holding the door for me because I was a woman rather than out of common courtesy as I had assumed. Not just men, women too. I learned this the first time I left the house presenting as male, when a woman entered a department store in front of me and just let the door swing shut behind her. I was so caught off guard I walked into it face first.

When you’re socially transitioning, you want to blend in, not stand out, so it’s uncomfortable when little reminders pop up that you’re not like everybody else. I’m expected to know everything about sports. I like sports but I’m not in deep like a lot of guys. For example, I love watching football, but I never played the sport (wasn’t an option for girls back in my day) so there is a lot I don’t know. I remember the first time I was in a wedding as a groomsman. I was maybe three years into my transition and I was lined up for photos with all the other guys. And one of them shouted, “High school football pose!” and on cue everybody dropped down and squatted like the offensive line, and I was like, what the hell is going on? It was not instinctive to me since I never played. I tried to mirror what everyone was doing, but when you see the picture I’m kind of “offsides,” so to speak.

The hormones made me more impatient. I had lots of female friends and one of the qualities they loved about me was that I was a great listener. After being on testosterone, they informed me that my listening skills weren’t what they used to be. Here’s an example: I’m driving with one of my best friends, Beth, and I ask her “Is your sister meeting us for dinner?” Ten minutes later she’s still talking and I still have no idea if her sister is coming. So finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I snapped and said, “IS SHE COMING OR NOT?” And Beth was like, “You know, you used to like hearing all the backstory and how I’d get around to the answer. A lot of us have noticed you’ve become very impatient lately and we think it’s that damn testosterone!” It’s definitely true that some male behavior is governed by hormones. Instead of listening to a woman’s problem and being empathetic and nodding along, I would do the stereotypical guy thing — interrupt and provide a solution to cut the conversation short and move on. I’m trying to be better about this.

People ask if being a man made me more successful in my career. My answer is yes — but not for the reason you might think. As a man, I was finally comfortable in my own skin and that made me more confident. At work I noticed I was more direct: getting to the point, not apologizing before I said anything or tiptoeing around and trying to be delicate like I used to do. In meetings, I was more outspoken. I stopped posing my thoughts as questions. I’d say what I meant and what I wanted to happen instead of dropping hints and hoping people would read between the lines and pick up on what I really wanted. I was no longer shy about stating my opinions or defending my work. When I gave presentations I was brighter, funnier, more engaging. Not because I was a man. Because I was happy.

‘People assume I know the answer’

Alex Poon, 26, Boston

Project manager for Wayfair, an online home goods company. Alex is in the process of his physical transition; he did the chest surgery after college and started taking testosterone this spring.

Traditional Chinese culture is about conforming to your elders’ wishes and staying within gender boundaries. However, I grew up in the U.S., where I could explore my individuality and my own gender identity. When I was 15 I was attending an all-girls high school where we had to wear skirts, but I felt different from my peers. Around that point we began living with my Chinese grandfather towards the end of his life. He was so traditional and deeply set in his ways. I felt like I couldn’t cut my hair or dress how I wanted because I was afraid to upset him and have our last memories of each other be ruined.

Genetics are not in my favor for growing a lumberjack-style beard. Sometimes, Chinese faces are seen as “soft” with less defined jaw lines and a lack of facial fair. I worry that some of my feminine features like my “soft face” will make it hard to present as a masculine man, which is how I see myself. Instead, when people meet me for the first time, I’m often read as an effeminate man.

My voice has started cracking and becoming lower. Recently, I’ve been noticing the difference between being perceived as a woman versus being perceived as a man. I’ve been wondering how I can strike the right balance between remembering how it feels to be silenced and talked over with the privileges that come along with being perceived as a man. Now, when I lead meetings, I purposefully create pauses and moments where I try to draw others into the conversation and make space for everyone to contribute and ask questions.

People now assume I have logic, advice and seniority. They look at me and assume I know the answer, even when I don’t. I’ve been in meetings where everyone else in the room was a woman and more senior, yet I still got asked, “Alex, what do you think? We thought you would know.” I was at an all-team meeting with 40 people, and I was recognized by name for my team’s accomplishments. Whereas next to me, there was another successful team led by a woman, but she was never mentioned by name. I went up to her afterward and said, “Wow, that was not cool; your team actually did more than my team.” The stark difference made me feel uncomfortable and brought back feelings of when I had been in the same boat and not been given credit for my work.

When people thought I was a woman, they often gave me vague or roundabout answers when I asked a question. I’ve even had someone tell me, “If you just Googled it, you would know.” But now that I’m read as a man, I’ve found people give me direct and clear answers, even if it means they have to do some research on their own before getting back to me.

A part of me regrets not sharing with my grandfather who I truly am before he passed away. I wonder how our relationship might have been different if he had known this one piece about me and had still accepted me as his grandson. Traditionally, Chinese culture sees men as more valuable than women. Before, I was the youngest granddaughter, so the least important. Now, I’m the oldest grandson. I think about how he might have had different expectations or tried to instill certain traditional Chinese principles upon me more deeply, such as caring more about my grades or taking care of my siblings and elders. Though he never viewed me as a man, I ended up doing these things anyway.

Zander Keig contributed to this article in his personal capacity. The opinions expressed in this are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of the Department of Defense.