#digging the Just Cried energy emanating off this image

[imagineclaireandjamie]

First of all, I love you all so much you're amazing at what you do and inspire me so much. Thank you for this blog I have not lived before this. I'm not sure if this has been done before or not, but what if Claire found out she was pregnant before she fully realized her feelings for Jamie?

Leaning back against the nearest tree, Claire huffed out a large breath, her mind finally calming as the rage of being *abandoned* here with young Willie dissipated.

“Mistress…?” The young lad yelled, scratching the side of his head, displacing his cap as he hopped from foot to foot, nerves getting the better of him.

“Out with it, Willie,” Claire sighed, exasperated with the whole ordeal.

“I’m just going further into the woods, aye? To piss…” he trailed off, not needing to explain further as he awaited Claire’s approval.

“Go on then,” she replied, a terse tone to her voice, one that she couldn’t seem to eradicate no matter how hard she tried, “just make sure you go downwind!”

Nodding, the lad scarpered, the leaves around his feet flying to the sides in his haste to leave.

Flopping back against the tree, Claire swayed to and fro, her toes buried in the detritus at her feet as she gazed around her, her mind trying not to conjure up fresh images of the raiders in the glade.

Pushing herself up, she wandered the same stretch of forest over and over, her movements making a wee path in the mulch, her footprints embedding into the forest floor. Shaking the renewed anguish from her head, Claire’s eyes darted just passed the tree line.

There, just out of sight and hidden ever so slightly by the thick bark of the oak trees, lay a familiar outcrop.

“Craigh na Dunn....” she whispered, her heart beginning to race as she stepped forward slightly. The swishing of the leaves around her kept her grounded as she laid her hands against the bark of the last evergreen, digging her fingers into the thin trunk as the wind blew through her hair.

Having little time to think, Claire hiked up her skirts and made for the hill, the rough terrain hampering her footsteps only slightly as she darted through the open ground paying no mind to anything or anyone who might be passing by.

Images of Frank swirled before her eyes as her ankles buckled, the small dips in the grass causing her to lose balance more than once.

She had to make it up there.

The wind blew, rising around her as she forged her way onwards, not giving a thought to the highlanders she’s ceremoniously dumped, or whether they would be perturbed by her mysterious disappearance.

Beckoning her forwards, the stones seem to call to her, the brisk breeze making hollow screeching sounds the closer she came to the circle.

The sun dipped low on the horizon as she finally reached the brow of the small incline, the hum and whisper of the stones echoing loudly in her ears now.

Reaching her hands forwards, Claire slowed her pace, her heart thumping madly in her chest --partially from her sprint, but partially a build up of nervous energy.

Could she really do this?

Could she simply abandon Jamie without a second thought, without leaving him some simple sign that she hadn’t been abducted, hurt or even killed outright.

The attack in the glen hit her square in the chest, the memory of the rogue redcoats grasping hands causing her to shiver as she slipped closer and closer towards the unconscious pull of the fairy hill.

Inside, deep in her belly, a warmth started to emanate. Beginning in her womb, the *glow* seemed to fill her frigid veins with new life, her eyes tearing up as the image of Frank wobbled and faded.

Suddenly her rash decision didn’t seem so clear anymore, and her flight away from Willie and the protection of the forest seemed foolish and selfish.

*No*, she reasoned, anger flaring as she took a measured step forwards, numbing herself to the strange sensation currently bubbling up just beneath her pale skin. She needed to go home, to the twentieth century where she belonged --where she had been desperate to return to this entire time.

Clenching her fists, Claire steadied her shoulders and fought back against the emotions coursing through her.

In the distance, a subtle cry pulled her from her internal conflagration, her ears pricking at the sound.

*Willie*...she could hear him calling out to her, his anxious fretting reverberating through the low ground as he searched for her.

Dipping down, Claire hid herself, her mouth going dry at the mere thought of him out there, frantically scraping every inch of the nearby surroundings in the hope of coming across her.

Her stomach dropped, the sensation rocking her as she gripped her belly, doubling over as she gasped for breath.

*NO*, she cried, albeit silently, the improbable explanation for her unease causing bile to rise in her throat.

*No. No, no...no!*

It couldn’t be.

She wasn’t sure, but it was certainly too soon to tell.

Her body, however, immediately dismissed the notion, the muscles in her womb tightening as if to protect the tiny visitor growing inside.

Slamming her back against a tree that grew on the edge of the hillock, Claire clenched her eyes shut, moisture spilling down her cheeks as she rubbed the same spot over and over, the rough material of her bodice irritating the sweat-drenched skin of her palms.

Before she had time to debate any further strong hands grabbed her, hauling her from the damp grass where she’d collapsed in anguish only moments before.

“Up with you, mistress!” The redcoats spat, distaste lacing their tone as they pulled Claire aside, taking advantage of her delirious state.

Finally, her faculties returning to her, Claire awoke, fury shooting through her from head to toe as she began to fight, her arms aching where the men had tight hold of her.

“No!” She yelled, her cheeks burning, impassioned rage seeping from her pores as she tried hard to flee.

“I don’t think so, my girl,” the older of the pair sneered, his blackened teeth grinding together as he bound her wrists and thrust he up into their small cart. “I’d save all your strength,” the younger returned, a fowl glint in his eyes as he secured her to the wagon, her wrists burning and her blood running cold as she guessed the next words out of his mouth, “you’ll need it soon enough. Just you wait until Captain Randall sees you, eh…”

With that, her heart plummeted.

As the horses began to pull away, Claire slid her knees upwards, cocooning herself against the thin material of the wagon wall, protecting the only thing that mattered now. The one thing she had wanted most of all.

Burying her head in her hands, she wept quietly, bitter tears rolling in thick rivulets down her flushed cheeks.

Why now? She cursed, her internal monologue going unheeded as dusk settled over the highlands.

Why now with a man she barely knew in a land where she was all but a stranger?

“I’m so...sorry,” she whispered.

To Frank.

To Jamie…

...and to their unborn baby.

TBC

#internallydeceased #;mod mbd #External Forces #Claire gets pregnant on their wedding night AU

[tuxiedjabberwock]

Those Ignorant to History (Are Doomed to Repeat It) - a Fairy Tail fan-fiction

Title: Dragon Taming (on tumblr) Category: Anime/Manga » Fairy Tail Author: Sqydd Language: English, Rating: Rated: T Genre: Romance/Humor Published: 08-23-16, Updated: 04-16-17 Chapters: 4, Words: 48,920

Summary - The embodiment of darkness and herald of the stars have been fighting for centuries and have died each time only to reincarnate. Then, to their surprise, their newest - and final - reincarnation is that of two humans, Natsu and Lucy.

Also available on:

https://www.wattpad.com/399552865-dragon-taming-those-ignorant-to-history-are-doomed

http://archiveofourown.org/works/7854286/chapters/23552460

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12116681/4/Dragon-Taming

https://www.quotev.com/story/9424139/Dragon-Taming/4

Those Ignorant to History (Are Doomed to Repeat It)

X102

 It was always in the same spot that we fought. We’d been clashing there for so long that I didn’t know if it was the first place we ever crossed weapons, or if it was a significant piece of land…none of that. What I did know with all certainty was that I expected her, and contrariwise, she expected me.

 The sun was high and bright that day as we faced each other across the barren landscape. The pale dirt bunched beneath my toes, which I could see rather than feel, as most of my skin was covered in a veil of darkness so thick everything seemed abstract to me. The darkness had been there as long as I have, like a second skin—no pun intended—that appeared whenever her light was nearby, like a sensor. It curled my nails into claws that could tear skin and muscle in one move and covered my face like a mask. It emanated from me like a mark of death, turning plants grey and making people sick when I walked past. But after all, it just brought out the monster that was already inside me.

 “Are you just going to stand there and look pretty, E.N.D.?” she said, her voice easily carrying across the ground, across the heavens. If I was like a messenger from Hell, she was my exact opposite, an angel from the heavens. Her long hair flowed down her back but it was always bound with these ornate cups and pins and bangles. She wore a breastplate carved with several murals that I could never understand, and in a pouch at her side were her Keys, not that she needed them—she was a powerhouse on her own.

 “No way,” I answered with a grin, raising my claws. “Half the fun is staring. You’re pretty sexy after all.”

 “Flattery will get you nowhere.” She curled her fingers around a pretend handle and swung forward. Light bended through her hand and grew longer and longer until she held a whip made of shining golden energy. She pulled her arm back, the whip arcing like a fish in the sunlight, before swinging.

 I waited until the last second before sidestepping, but I’d made a miscalculation: the whip extended as she swung it, and I could feel the air split where she swung, I dodged so narrowly. It struck the ground and brought up huge waves of dirt on either side from the force of the impact. In the same move she was already bringing it up again, swinging towards the side. I tensed before jumping into the air, getting high above the battlefield. She looked up, dark eyes narrowed in focus, and raised her arm. I pushed forward to avoid the swipe, but I didn’t expect her to change mid-strike and the whip shifted around to coil around my ankle. Before she could pull me down, though, I swiped at her with my claws.

 Ching! My magic bounced off of her breastplate as she was sent skidding backwards, arms up instinctively to brace herself from the impact. Still, my claws left large scores in the heavy celestial bronze. She recovered quickly and yanked back, causing the whip to tighten and drag me down to the dirt and across the field before she snapped it, sending me flying into the air. I grabbed the whip before she could retract it and pushed my own magic through, causing it to turn black and burst into stardust. She released it before my magic could touch and burn her, and she braced herself before kicking off into the sky with a huge cloud of dust. In her cupped hands formed a lustrous broadsword that she swung with all her might.

 “Die, you wretched creature of the night!” she screamed as the blade connected with my side. I felt its bite as her magic iced mine down, leaving a trail of black smoke instead of blood. Before she could slice me through, I made sure to grasp her slim neck with my claws.

 “You’re on your way with me,” I rasped, and as she pulled, I tightened my grip. All went dark.

 X322

 “Do you feel the bite of Celestial Magic?” I hissed as I nocked another wispy golden arrow on my hand-crafted bow, modeled with the same design as the rest of my armor. I circled the demon via my mount, an albino mare christened Albury, hooves kicking up huge clouds of dust as I worked on whittling the great dragon E.N.D. down.

 “I’ve felt worse bites from lice,” he retorted, digging onyx claws as thick as tree trunks into the earth as he leaned forward. The sunlight glinted dangerously off of his scarlet scales, then his large and jagged teeth as he leered at me. I smelled smoke seconds before he made his next move, and with a firm tug on Albury’s reins, she skidded to a stop and raced in the opposite direction.

 “Fire Dragon’s Roar!” A great typhoon of orange and golden flames blasted from his mouth, searing across the grasslands and through the sequoia trees that had been growing the last few decades, reducing anything and everything to ethernano in mere seconds. I dropped the visor of my helmet to keep my vision clear, but sweat formed beneath the bronze from the heat generated. Albury cried out at the temperature and I caressed her mane, urging her to run faster as E.N.D.’s flames fanned out.

 “What’s the matter, brave knight? Can you not stand the heat?” he jeered, and through the sparks and smoke, I heard his massive hands and feet pounding as he began to move. Then, with the ominous noise of rustling fabric, a gale force one wind blew through the forest, taking Albury off her hooves and sending both of us rolling across the ashy ground. The advantage was that the flames were cleared; the con, E.N.D.’s wings were spread for flight.

 “Go fly away like the insect you are!” I shouted, flipping over so that my heels dug into the earth and increased my traction. He flapped his wings again, stirring up small black tornadoes of ash, and after a moment his feet left the ground. Before he could get too high, I summoned a saber in place of an arrow, and I used magic to thicken the bowstring before nocking and firing. The saber pierced through his left wing. “But you’ll have a grand time trying to with one wing!” Celestial Magic erupted from the hole created, zapping about his wing like lightning. He bellowed long and loud, a beast’s cry of agony, before he pitched to the right, his single wing unable to keep him aloft. I righted Albury and jumped to her saddle, and she took off as E.N.D.’s shadow grew against the ground.

 “You’re baiting a dragon’s fury, are you, littlest star?” he growled as he remedied himself, forcing his wings straight and gliding low across the ground. His hand crept up on me fast, and I felt him seize me by the hair before I stabbed an arrow into his palm. Crimson blood as hot as lava leaked from the wound, searing the ground as his pained roar filled the air. He recoiled instinctively, and his blood arced into the air before splattering across me and Albury.

 “Aahn!” Albury cried in pain as her skin and fur of her haunch was burned through with the terrible scent of rot, exposing sinew and bone beneath. I could feel my shoulder plate dissolve and I hurriedly unclipped it, letting it roll away behind us, but the damage was done: my primary arm was made useless. I shed my celestial plates and raised my hands, letting them burn with my magic. E.N.D.’s wings folded, sending him crashing down on a course to crush me, but as he grew near, I made sure to burn his heart out before I was finished.

 X680

 She was standing in a plaza of shining grey cobblestones and delicately carved pillars made into the image of the beings twirling between them. Aquarius the Water Bearer hung in a white stone fountain grumbling angrily to herself; Virgo the Maiden eyed her pillar and then herself, comparing images; Taurus the Golden Bull used a memorial placard built of steel to sharpen his battleax as nobody watched; Leo the Lion hovered alongside his goddess, his celestial bronze glinting like the shimmering gold of her gown. Her hair was loose and spiraled down her shoulder, and it glittered as she threw her head back and laughed. Like the stars around her, she shone with enough radiance to light up the night.

 Why couldn’t I be down there laughing alongside them? Oh, right, it was because I was a demon, because I was evil. Best not to disappoint them, then.

 I slid down the hill that led to their little gala, my bare feet moving easily across the dewy grass before it all withered and died in my presence. If there was anything that I despised, it was my alternative forms: one day, I would be inhumanly venomous, and the next, a hulking scaly beast. Always one or the other, while my beautiful goddess remained as pure and holy as freshly fallen snow—another extravagance I never experienced.

 Virgo was the first to see me coming, navy eyes widening as she turned to alert the others. “No need,” I said, reaching towards her. My touch would’ve spelt her death, star or no star, but before my claws could touch her, a spiked whip locked around my wrist. My magic faded away at the sight of her light, and my skin burned with a smell like sulfur.

 “You won’t be laying a claw on my friends,” she hissed with more venom than even I could muster, eyes narrowed to hateful chips. More than anything, I loved seeing her mad: it meant that, like me, she was still human and thus flawed. She was no goddess, no star like her friends—she was simply one who had been blessed with their Keys and strength, and like any other blessing, it all could be snatched away within a moment.

 “I want a dance,” I told her. “Is that too much to ask for?”

 “From a creature such as you?” she said through her teeth. “Very much.”

 “Leave now,” Leo cautioned, a hand on his sheathed sword. I twisted my arm around to grab her whip, the scald just a dull pain in the back of my mind.

 “I said I want a dance. I wish you’d indulge me this once, littlest star.” And I yanked on the whip. Surprised, her grip held, causing her to jerk forward and her head to bump into my chest. While she was still stunned, I wrapped one arm around her waist, and the other, my claw-free hand, I linked with hers. Our skin blackened in contact with one another, and her face screwed in pain, but she quickly hid it beneath a scowl.

 “Release her.” Leo was growling now, sword drawn and with the starlight reflecting ominously from the silver blade. Virgo had her chains in hand and Taurus’ ax was cocked for a swing. But then again, the bottom line was the same: should they hurt me, they would kill her, either by piercing us both or by causing our blood to mix.

 “Let go,” she hissed, trying to pull away.

 “Littlest star,” I said, making sure to have her attention, “your light is the beacon of the night where my darkness would otherwise reign as the supremacy. But, you see, I am not made irate by the fact: in fact, I find pleasure in your endless radiance. It is, after all, what makes this immortal life all the more worth it to live. People…no, calling us anything of that sort would be a cruel, gross lie…beings such as us could not find entertainment otherwise. Like that, let us clash again and again, over and over for the rest of eternity, until I finally catch your light between my claws and tear away your wings and crush you into stardust.”

 Then I kissed her. And, to be honest, it was the most anticlimactic deaths we’ve had so far.

 X791

 My head ached, as did every other nerve in my body. While the stars were usually my friends, it felt as if the sun was compressing into my skull. I grabbed my temples with a moan and had to wait out the pain before I could even think of opening my eyes. At first, all felt icy cold, then I was aware of a radiant heat spreading out from my upper arm.

 “Lucy.”

 Who is that? Moreover, it has to have been a century at the very least. Who else would know my sobriquet aside from the stars?

 “Littlest star, wake up. Wake up and see,” that voice hissed. Littlest star… I was accustomed to that.

 “Mm…” Things appeared blurry yellow at first, but after a few moments I could make out the crescent moon amidst a cerulean sky. There were no stars and not but wisps of slate-grey clouds, which made my stomach turn with disquiet. My limbs felt heavy and stiff and my head continued to spin so violently I feared I would be nauseous.

 “Look at us, Lucida.”

 My eyes felt tender, as did my neck, but I shifted to finally gaze at my accoster. His face was closest to me, soft pink strands falling from his spikes and lightly brushing my brow. His eyes are large, sharp, and intense, emerald about their circumference yet dark and endless in their cores. He seemed familiar, as if by an old dream. At the sight of my eyes, a small smile quirked his lips as he sat back on his heels. “Welcome back to the world,” he said in a low, smooth voice.

 “Who are…” I caught sight of my arms, pale and freckled and entirely bare. I dragged them down my chest and found nothing there, not a shred of my celestial bronze that I’d worn as armor since…the beginning. Additionally, I couldn’t feel any ethernano in the air, and without ethernano, I couldn’t use my magic. My hair fell loosely around my shoulders and back, unbound and without my Zodiac clip I’d received from Loki so long ago. “My things—what have you done with my things?” I hissed. He gave me a shrug that was essentially The hell would I know?

 “I’m just as barren as you, littlest star. Have you ever known me to be without my magic, my scales?” Suddenly it occurred to me who he was, and the thought made my fingers curl.

 “E.N.D.” The word was spat like venom. He winced only for a moment, but it bewildered me all the same.

 “You didn’t answer my question.”

 “No, I didn’t theft your armor in your sleep—precisely what do you take me for?” he sighed, slapping his palm against his forehead and leaning back. He was sitting cross-legged to be level with me, and around us all that existed was pasture and sky, however in the far distance I could see faint lights. “What I can say is…it seems something went wrong with our reincarnation.”

 “You think?” I snapped. He disregarded that and tilted his head back towards the sky.

 “Look, I know darkness and light associates as well as oil and water, but right now, we’ve no choice but to cooperate.”

 “I’d rather lay out here and let the wolves get me.” True to my words, a howl sounds, and it was not nearly as distant as civilization.

 “Well, as much as I’d love to leave you out there,” he stated flatly, “I’m not going to let you die.”

 “Yes, because it’s your job to kill me, isn’t it?” He grimaced again. “Have you truly chosen now of all centuries to feign innocence, E.N.D.?”

 “That’s not it. I just don’t fight this random…perplexing…situation to be appropriate for our next fight. Especially since, well.” He gave a pointed look to my undressed state with no legible expression. “There just wouldn’t be any fun in it.”

 “You’re one to talk,” I pointed out. He glanced at himself, tanned planes bare for the world, and gave me a half-smile.

 “Fair point well made. Let’s go look for some clothes. We’re near to a village, I believe.” He stood and walked off. Any other man would’ve offered a hand, but through all of our encounters, one fact remained: we scorched each other. Even though we were entirely normal then, I still didn’t like the idea of testing our new limits. As I stood, I felt a lot heavier than usual, even though my armor wasn’t present.

 “I could really use a favor,” I called out to the heavens, but for the first time in my very long life, the stars were silent.

  A ranch came into view by first the cows, then the slanted wooden farmhouse. The demon is halted by the sight of the bovines, and a wide grin stretches across his face as he throws his arms around one. “I’ve always wanted to touch one of these, but my magic has always repelled them!” he cried, beside himself with ecstasy. “Aww, she’s so soft~” he purred, nuzzling her side and caressing her head.

 “What in the…” I’d seen E.N.D. in many forms: fury, conceit, valor, sociopathy… This, this id however, that was just weird. I’d begun to wonder if our new re-embodiments would disturb our psyches as much as our appearances and magic ampules.

 “Don’t you like cows, Lucida?” he queried abruptly, glancing at me with wide and innocent eyes.

 “I don’t know! It’s not something I’ve ever thought about!”

 “Well I have!” he huffed with all the petulant finality of a three-year-old. “There have always been too many things I couldn’t touch, lest I…” Lest he cause them to disintegrate or rot or burn away by the force of his being. “This, though, this is pleasant. Touching is nice. Did you know that grass is heavy with dew early in the morning?” he said delightedly. I wanted to say something, but there were more impertinent matters.

 “Let’s go find some clothes.”

 “Right, right.”

 The house was empty with the door unlocked as we entered. I was loathe to take clothes without the owner’s permission, but E.N.D. hadn’t the same scruples, and returned from a backroom with an armful of fabric. “We’ll return these later,” he said absently, trying to sweep past me.

 “No, we won’t. I don’t want to steal these people’s clothes.”

 “Gods, you’re so prissy even now,” he scorned, rolling his eyes. “Tell me, do you have money on you? Anything to trade but the fine gold of your hair?” He took a lock between his fingers for emphasis, letting it run between the calloused pads like silk. “No? I didn’t think so.” He fished through the pile and came up with a threadbare shirt large and long enough to be a dress. “So I suggest you get with it now and worry about compensation later.” He tossed the shirt over at me before looking again.

 “You—”

 “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said, sticking his tongue out. He found a pair of pants that could fit his tall frame and paused. “Been a long time since I could wear clothes,” he muttered to himself. He pulled on a drawstring shirt that clung well to his torso. “Feels scratchy.” Suddenly his head snapped towards the back wall, eyes narrowed. I recognized that expression very well—he was tensing for action. “They are returning. We must take our leave.” He flung a pair of overlarge work boots at me and stomped on a pair of his own.

 “These won’t fit me,” I told him. “It’s not as if earth has ever bothered me previously.”

 “You might think otherwise,” he replied forebodingly, moving past me. It appeared that he had retained some of his otherworldly abilities unlike myself, as he was across the room in a flash. “Well?” he stated flatly, waving a hand towards the door in exaggeration. Again, I was conflicted, but as we didn’t have a choice otherwise…

 “Where are we going?” I asked as he had us running through the mud. The night air had it cool against my bare ankles and it was dry enough that I wouldn’t get stuck. He gave me a sidelong look with the corner of his mouth quirked.

 “We’re going to run,” he said as the sound of hooves on pavement reached my ears. “But we’re going to need a shortcut.”

 “A shortcut?” The strong scent of feces hit me as we came up to a border of a thick wooden fence, and beyond that was a cluster of pigs in significantly softer mud among other things. I twisted around, shoving my feet into the dirt. “I’m not going to—”

 “Up you go!” E.N.D. said brightly as his strong hands clasped around my waist, and within my next breath I was soaring over the fence. It was only by centuries of training that I didn’t fall on my face, thank the gods, but my hands and feet were encrusted with the pigs’ waste. Still, I had gotten off spot-free elsewhere…that is, until the demon came leaping after me, quite literally causing a splash. “I can still jump high!” he cried gleefully, turning to me with big eyes and a bigger, boyish grin. “Lucida, did you see—”

 “I can’t see a thing at the moment, thanks to you.”

 “Whoops…” It took a moment, but he wiped away the muck currently dripping from every spare inch of my body, at least around my eyes so I could see his amused and sheepish expression. “Let’s keep moving before this shit dries.”

 It had never been in my wildest dreams to be making an escape from a farm with E.N.D., my longtime rival, but there we were, running across the grass with nothing but moonlight and stardust in the air. I looked over and saw him whooping and shouting with glee into the night sky, which reflected off of his eyes as true jewels. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never seen him so…boyish. So carefree and excitable. And he didn’t just act like a human, he looked like one too. No longer was he clothed in blackness or scales, but tanned skin and spiky pink hair and shining eyes. For a brief moment, I recalled that, like me, he was once human.

 The village seemed to burn with its own effervescence as we drew closer, which was when we realized it was a large town rather than a simple parish. To the west of it was mountains edged by forestry, and opposite was the grass and farmland we just escaped from. We were a handful of steps away from the dirt roads lining the town when E.N.D. came to a rigid stop, every muscle in his body fraught and eyes narrowed.

 “Something…is coming,” he uttered through a tight jaw, shaking slightly from the tension building within. “I must…” He raised hands, hands no longer threatening with claws long and sharp, and gave a furious grunt, clenching his fists. He marched off without another word, diving into a cluster of foliage. I didn’t have time to think up another brilliant hiding spot before twin white lights shone from down the road, blinding me with their luminosity. I squinted my eyes against the radiance, wondering if there was in fact magic still in the world, then I caught sight of the producer of the light.

 A machine of some sort, the size of a large boulder and crafted of steel, humming like a cobra with prey in sight. I froze for a moment, then cursed myself for succumbing to fear, but that hesitation was enough for the contraption to be upon me. As it grew closer, the warning lights didn’t appear as bright, and I could make out two faces within: one male, one female.

 “Whoa, you okay?” The humming cut off to make way for the man’s voice. A door on the side of the machine swung open and he leapt to the ground. He was young, a build similar to E.N.D.’s, and was clothed in an oddly-patterned shirt and with blue trousers tucked into combat boots. He started towards me, then came up short. “Wow, you’re, uh, you stink.”

 “Gray!” The second door opened to allow what I thought had long since passed: a female warrior. Her hair, scarlet as blood, was pinned away from her sharp features, and through her sleeveless top and short pants, I could see powerful muscles working beneath her skin. “That’s no way of speaking to a lady!” she snapped to her friend.

 “I’m sorry, but it’s true,” he huffed in reply.

 “I apologize for his unruly behavior,” the maiden warrior said, slapping him on the shoulder hard enough to elicit a grunt. “I’m Erza, and this is Gray. What’s happened to you?”

 “I, err… I got lost,” I said. It wasn’t in my nature to lie, but I had the feeling that my true story would raise eyebrows. “I’ve made it here from a long way away as to complete an old task, however several…hitches have arisen. As of now, I’m completely out of luck.” They exchanged a look, then returned puzzled gazes to me. “Is something…the matter?” I knew that I was covered in pig excrement, and that that alone could warrant some odd looks, but at that moment they seemed focus on something else.

 “The way you speak,” Gray said before trailing off thoughtfully, itching the back of his neck. “It’s…weird.”

 “Weird…” I’ve always found it a blessing that the language in its entirety never changed, never mind the nuances of grammar and construction.

 “I have to admit, it’s peculiar,” Erza added, then shook her head. “Never mind that, though. Would you like to come to my home to clean up?”

 “I…would love that. Thank you very much.” There was still research to be done on E.N.D. and my conditions, but it could wait until I didn’t have dried mud sticking my toes together.

 “I just cleaned the interior,” Gray muttered as Erza ushered me in first, then slid in to my right. Ahead was a panel of lighted buttons that I couldn’t help but be amazed at. Gray slid in to the right, and after shutting the door he reached beneath a wheel and turned a key. The humming returned in full force before quieting somewhat as the machine moved across the road, the same speed as a horse drawn carriage. “I guess it’s too late to ask if you’re some serial killer,” he said casually, glancing at me before returning his eyes to the road.

 “No, no,” I replied, and I had to chuckle with it. Erza joined in as well, her dark eyes sparkling with mirth.

 “Your name?”

 “It’s, ah, Lu…” If the nuances of my speech were odd, my name would stick out even more. It was enough of a rarity two hundred years ago—“Lucida Sidera.” I’ve been told it meant of the stars, a very long time ago, and I took pleasure in that. However, there was another name I was known by, one that the lion constellation delighted in labelling me, that I believed would fare better. “Lucy is what they call me.”

 “They? Who’s that, the Ghostbusters?” Gray chuckled. Erza laughed too, and although I didn’t get the joke, I laughed as to not be singled out. But my name seemed to be well-received. He turned, and all of a sudden, we were surrounded by tall, silver buildings and complex ones alike, and many, many more of these machines rolling across tarred roads. People milled about on walkways despite the late hour—or was it early? We had been out for a long while.

 “My house is right around here,” Erza said as Gray turned again into dual rows of houses painted the same color. He stopped in front of what looked identical to all the others. “Come on.” She had to leave first, then I hopped to the ground gratefully, my legs feeling shaky from the machine’s engine. Erza led me to the front, which was illuminated by odd lights unlike Lacrimas, and as I waved my hand around them, I found that they emitted the same heat. “Welcome,” she smiled as she opened the door, revealing a sparsely furnished main room. There were some seats and closed door as well as an open arch leading into the kitchen. “The bathroom is right over there. I’ll see if I have any clothes you can wear.”

 “Thank you again, Miss Erza.”

 If the town outside was a wonder, the bathroom is even more so. There is a marble bathtub and sink and toilet as I was used to, but instead of drawing water from outside in a basin, there are outlets protruding from the blue and green tiled walls alongside dual knobs made of clear glass. I tried both and found that one creates hot water, the other cold.

 Modern innovations are wondrous, I thought.

 I took off the clothes from the farmland and, although it pained me to do so, threw them away. I doubted that they were salvageable any longer. I pumped as much hot water as I could into the tub and sunk in, feeling it wash off the grime and grit from our journey. Our journey… I wondered idly if E.N.D. found somewhere to go, then cursed myself for it. Maybe he’s helped you this once, but he’s still the longstanding enemy, I kept in mind. I spotted some sweet-smelling soap perched on the corner of the tub and used it to wipe the remnants of dirt from my body. I thought that I could understand what it meant to be a human now, and I wondered if there was another step. We’ve been fighting for eons now… Perhaps this is the stars’ way of telling us to stop? This is a place of no magic, of no demons or celestial maidens. This is… This is…

 I decided not to worry about what it was and instead put my energy towards why it was. To do that, I needed to learn. Learn how to speak the modern language, learn of the new devices and machines, learn about Gray and Erza, even… Knowledge was what I needed, and it would come at a price. I couldn’t manage alone.

 I pulled the plug to let the browned water swirl away, and after that was done I let the faucet run and washed away the bits clinging to the sides of the tub. I was drying myself when Erza knocked on the door: “I have some clothes for you, Lucy.” I left the towel on my hair and opened the door, smiling as she passed the bundle over to me. Her eyes roved over my naked body before a smirk pulled at her pink lips. “Confident in your body, are you? I appreciate that in a woman—it’s rare.”

 “I suppose,” I said, because I didn’t know how else to respond. I found that undergarments had gone through the largest change in the centuries, and they made me flush to put them on, but the loose shirt and pants she provided were fine otherwise. I braided my still-wet hair down my shoulder and returned to the main room to see Erza and Gray having an animated conversation, Gray’s previously frosty expression melting into loud laughter.

 “Lucy,” he chuckled as he saw me, acknowledging my return. I nodded politely and sat across from them carefully.

 “I apologize for the interruption, and especially since we are unfamiliar, however…I would like to impose upon you for a favor.” They still appeared at ease though, with a friendly warmth I was unversed with from humans.

 “Of course,” Erza said, nodding. “What is it?”

 “I…don’t have anybody else to turn to for assistance as of now…as a matter of fact, I’m on my own indefinitely…” As much as I didn’t like it, the stars were the most silent they had ever been. “And seeing as I’m in an unknown environment, I would…if you two are willing…”

 “You need a hand, right?” Gray finished. “To help you off your feet?”

 “I don’t follow you.”

 “Some support to get you started here,” Erza supplied. I smiled in relief and nodded. “Well, that won’t be too hard to give. The main thing you’d need is a job.” Work, yes, that concept I am familiar with. “Hmm… You could perhaps work with us.”

 “Where do you two work, exactly?”

 “In theatre,” Gray answered. “A troupe called Fairy Tail. The way you talk, you wouldn’t even have to act.” Entertainment? Now that was a first for me.

 “What would I have to do?”

 “Considering that you’re new, you would be doing a lot of backstage work. Passing messages, taking notes, adjusting props and such… It would be easy, and we make enough money per show to pay you a fraction of an actor’s wages for it.” Erza lifted her chin slightly. “Actually, if the Master likes you, you could maybe even start off with light roles.”

 “The…Master?”

 “Our boss,” Gray amended with a wince. “Some people call him master because…I really don’t know why. But he’d be happy to give you an advance payment if you explained your situation—it’d be enough to get yourself a little place, some clothes, basic stuff.”

 “You two are doing so much for so little in return…”

 “We’re not looking for anything in return,” he said pointedly, crossing his arms and leaning back. “We just do the right thing ‘cause it’s the right thing. We don’t pride ourselves on having common sense.” Erza nodded her agreement. “So, you think you wanna act?” he finished with a slight smile, eyebrows raised.

 Perhaps things can be easy, living in this new time, I believed. What I said was: “I’ll give it my best shot.”

 X792

 “Lu-chan!” I spun around in time to catch a wad of blue curls and excitement in my arms. Levy raised her head with a flushed-cheek grin as she blew some stray locks from her face.

 “Levy! Where’s the fire?”

 “Look, look, look!” she exclaimed, waving her phone in my face. I had to grab her wrists to still her hand enough to read it. To my surprise, Kemu Zaleon’s new novel had come out three months early.

 “Wow, this is great!”

 “I know, right!” she beamed, jumping back. “Right after rehearsal I’m going to BookLand! You’re coming too?”

 “Actually, I have to do some research at the library for a term paper.” The sentence was true in bits: I did have a term paper, and I did have research at the library to attend to, but the two did not correlate.

 “Well okay, I’ll buy you a copy while I’m there.”

 “That’s why I love you, Levy-chan.”

 “Oi, Bunny-girl,” Gajeel called from the walkway over our heads, a repaired spotlight slung over his shoulder. His long black hair was pushed back from his pierced scowl. “Ya tryin’ to steal my shrimp now?”

 “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I called back, shoving Levy lightly. “Go on, before he decides to let me have a stage accident.”

  “Yeah, c’mon, I need some help with the lights.”

 “I’m coming,” she said, going towards the stairs. Even if Gajeel needed help, the lights were heavy—he wouldn’t call Levy. But we all knew that, despite being a generally nice if gruff person, he had his possessive moments. After all, they had a wedding on the horizon. Then again, there were others who could be far more possessive on the set…

 “Hey, Lucy, Master wants to see you!” Erza yelled from the other end of the walkway. I waved in acknowledgement and ducked behind the heavy red curtains to the door of his office. Inside were bookshelves all against the wall, stuffed with script folders, photo albums, and books that could provide possible shows. Makarov, the elderly man who ran the theater, smiled warmly at me as I shut the door.

 “How are you doing, my child?” It was the way that he addressed us all, as if we were his own children, and I couldn’t blame him: unlike his own flesh-and-blood son, Ivan, we were fond of spending time with him.

 “Fine, thanks for asking. I have sixty hours of credits left.” I’d been taking classes at Magnolia University for the past year, majoring in History (as to fill in the huge blanks) and minoring in Engineering (to fill in the other blanks). In the process, I discovered that Magnolia had been built atop the very first place where E.N.D. and I had fought: the butterfly graveyard. It was never understood why butterflies died in the area, but nevertheless, their beautiful wings made still in death was an ominous presence, the perfect for a fight to the death. I wondered if that had any significance.

 “That’s good. What do you plan on doing with your degrees?” I hesitated. That part, I didn’t give much thought to.

 “Teaching, most likely.” He nodded thoughtfully, then sat forward in his chair.

 “The reason I’ve called you is that I have a new script, and I believe you’d be perfect for the female lead.”

 “What?” I cried. Though I’d been working there for a year, designing props and editing scripts, sometimes writing portions of them with Levy, I’d never acted a main role, let alone lead role. “Mr. Dreyar, are you…”

 “Certain? Yes, yes I am. This role was made for you, Ms. Heartfilia.” With that, he gave me a particularly cunning smile, like there was a hilarious joke that I was missing. “We’re going to have auditions in a couple of days, and rehearsals will start on Monday.”

 “You won’t be using the others in this show?” He shook his head.

 “We want to use fresh faces for once, you know. Yours especially is still new around here, but if all goes well, you’ll be one of our stars.” I flushed a little. “How about you look over it tonight and give me a response in the morning?”

 “I’ll… Alright, that sounds good.” I took the packet from his hands and his secret smile elongated.

 “Have a good day, Lucida,” he said, offering his hand to shake. It wasn’t until I had already left and was on my way home that I realized he called me by my true name, and I was certain I hadn’t told him.

 “What did Makarov tell you?” Gray asked, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. Reedus was working on his makeup for the show that was to begin in a couple of hours. He was supposed to be a prince, and his double-breasted coat and slicked back hair really did make him appear as royalty.

 “He offered me a role in the next performance… Where’s your princess?”

 “Funny you should ask that,” he said with a grimace, and shifted forward a bit. Suddenly, Juvia’s form was behind his, eyes boring into mine with a fire that didn’t fit her lovely loose curls and billowing gown.

 “Love rival,” she ground out without actually separating her teeth. I stepped from her line of sight and it felt as if gravity had gotten a few tons lighter.

 “That’s about it,” Reedus finished quickly, perhaps to save me from death by Glare. Gray was quick to shuffle off, waving me over to a Juvia-free corner.

 “You said he offered you a role? That’s great.”

 “It’s…a lead role,” I added hesitantly. He smiled and clapped my shoulder.

 “That’s even better. Can I see the script?”

 “Yeah, sure.” I handed it over and he scanned it, flipping through the pages with a thoughtful hum.

 “Did you see it yet?”

 “No, why?” He chuckled.

 “It’s kinda funny… The main girl seems just like you. Even this picture—” He showed me the cover page, which featured a painting (most likely Reedus’ work) of a maiden warrior in armor of the same fair-haired shade, and she was clashing swords with a creature made of shadows into the silhouette of man.

 This role was made for you, Ms. Heartfilia.

 “I don’t think so. She’s much more beautiful.”

 “I beg to differ,” he replied easily. I was briefly reminded of Loki, the most amorous star, but Gray’s toying was more out of camaraderie. Aside from that, Juvia couldn’t stand to see him even be within two feet of another woman, let alone flirt.

 “Well anyway, I think I’ll decline. It would be a lot of work to rehearse for a main role, and I have a lot of studying to do.” Besides that, the whole situation seemed shady.

 “Lucy, this would be your stage debut. Do you really want to pass it up?” he said seriously.

 “Well, no, I don’t want to, but…” But I have to. I’d been planning to tell my friends my story sometime, when I believed they could handle it, but lately it was out of my own cowardice that I chickened out every chance that came up. “I just don’t have the time.”

 “Keep thinking about it, alright?” He returned my script as Erza called for all the actors to meet backstage. “See you.” He gave me a smirk before pushing through the curtains, disappearing behind their folds. I gave the script another look before putting it with my things, then I went to help the others set up for rehearsal.

 I gave Mira, our resident piano genius, the sheet music, and she thanked me with her usual overflowing kindness. To Gajeel (and Levy) were instructions to watch out for Makarov’s signals on the lights and curtains. Lisanna and Elfman were in charge of moving props on and off stage, and Cana was in charge of costumes. Vijeeter was choreographer and Nab…well, honestly, I never found out what Nab did. He showed up to work on time, left on time, but all he did was stand in the corner by the broken ‘EXIT’ sign. Nobody else could tell me what he did, and I never wanted to ask him in case it came off rude or personal.

 As Makarov waved at Gajeel and he lifted the curtains, Gray stepped front stage. His arms were out and his head was tilted back as if he was going to shower in a rainstorm, and in a low voice he began his monologue. I only caught snippets of it as I went to and fro between departments, but what I heard was amazing, as expected. For someone so icy and uncomfortable with others, he was an entirely different person in costume. On the other hand, Erza, who was playing a prince from an opposing kingdom, had just the same amount of vigor and grandiose on the stage and off the stage. I started to wonder, Could I be like them, putting on a grand show? I looked out at the plethora of plush seats and imagined crowds there to see me on stage. It felt like a dream, like how my old life was starting to feel after so long of being…normal.

 I descended to the ground and shuffled across the row of seats to where Makarov and the supervisor, his son Laxus, sat to watch. “Mr. Dreyar, do you mind if I get an early start on my work?”

 “You only have thirty minutes left on the clock anyway. I don’t mind,” he replied. “I’ll be waiting for your response in the morning.”

 “Alright, have a good night.” Laxus gave me a curt nod as I left, pushing through the double doors into the city. The setting sun peeked through the surrounding office buildings with the light refracting through their glass walls and all over. The Fairy Tail Theater looked more and more like a castle every time I saw it, an old place build of thick stone slabs and decorated with realistic fairy sculptures, part of its name. Behind it was the huge fountain of Magnolia Park and all of its greenery, providing an aptly dreamlike scene of a dreamlike place.

 I usually drove to work, but my car had been in the shop for the last few days from a battery that spontaneously broke (one of the modern world’s mysteries, I assumed), so I caught the city bus instead. I lived pretty far from Fairy Tail, so I decided to check the script out to pass the time. It was titled, The Stars Against the Night.

 “Interesting,” I murmured, glancing at the picture again and finding it even more unsettling than before. I flipped the page, then flipped back quickly to take another look, rubbing my eyes when all seemed well. For a moment, I’d thought I saw Natsu’s face on the dark form, but it was only my imagination.

 The setting was a fable, a story where a little girl with hair of gold “danced with the fairies by day,” and where a black-haired man with pale skin “fought with the darkness at night.” While the two characters were physically and emotionally nothing like me and E.N.D., I could feel a weird sense of déjà vu in the papers.

 The story is of their forbidden love, two beings of opposite standing and magic who met at sunset, the combination of their worlds, to talk of sweet nothings. Then, as decades passed, the boy wanted more. The story was unclear of what “more” meant, but whatever the case, she disagreed. For the first time in centuries, they had an argument, one that disturbed the balance of all things. They argued for days and nights alike, causing blackouts and storms and eclipses in their anger, but no matter how hard they tried to separate, their tie of love always connected them. It was paradoxical: their love was what compelled them to argue, and their arguments shaded their love. Then, after one hundred years of turmoil, they met up once more. At that point, while I had been skimming before, I felt mystically compelled to read the dialogue:

 GIRL: WE HAVE BEEN FIGHTING A LONG TIME, MY LOVE. ARE YOU NOT YET SATISFIED?

 BOY: I SHALL NOT BE UNTIL YOU SUBMIT TO ME.

 GIRL: AS LONG AS WE FIGHT, THE WORLD SUFFERS. DO YOU REALLY WISH TO PROLONG THIS OVER A PETTY ARGUMENT?

 BOY: IT IS FAR FROM PETTY… PERHAPS IF YOU DIDN’T STILL THINK AS A CHILD, YOU WOULD SEE.

 GIRL: [infuriated] THEN SO BE IT! IF, TO SAVE THIS WORLD, I MUST GIVE UP THE ONE AND ONLY LOVE I’VE EVER KNOWN, I SHALL.

 BOY: [in a detached but trembling voice] …DON’T YOU DARE. DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME ALONE AGAIN…

 GIRL: YOU’VE BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF.

 (BOY stares at her, speechless, then bursts out laughing. GIRL is confused as he turns his eyes skyward, then back to her with arms extended.)

 BOY: “SO BE IT.” LET YOUR BLOOD BE VENOM WITHIN THIS EARTH. LET ALL YOUR ANCESTORS THAT TREAD ACROSS IT BE CURSED THAT THEY WILL BE LIKE YOUR PRECIOUS FAIRIES, ALL DOOMED TO DRINK THEIR POISON. ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, “MY LOVE.”

 GIRL: YOU— [with tears in her eyes] FINE, THEN, IF THAT IS HOW YOU WISH TO BE, YOU—YOU MONSTER. YOU BEAUTIFUL MONSTER. LIKE YOU, YOUR SONS WILL BE AS A DREAM IN APPEARANCE, BUT AS A NIGHTMARE BENEATH THE SURFACE.

 It was only a fable, it was, but I felt as enraptured as if I was a firsthand witness. I was so into it, I almost didn’t notice the bus pulling up at my stop, and hurried to collect my things and step off. My apartment was only a block away from the stop. The landlady greeted me with the same grunt/curt nod that she had been, and for once I didn’t fight a conversation from her. I went to my apartment and dropped my things in a hurry, flipping through the rest of the script.

 After the impactful opening, the script goes on to a new setting, which is only described as “a place where the carcasses of dreams abound.” Now the protagonists are the ones in the cover, the blonde maiden and the black one. The second arc can be described as battle after battle after battle. They clashed on land, they clashed overseas, they clashed within the heavens. Makarov said that the role was made for me, but he couldn’t have any possible idea how true those words rang. For centuries, eons, maybe even a forgotten millennium, that was all E.N.D. and I had done: fight. I half expected to see “and then they fell into pig crap” on the next page, everything was so…accurate.

 Did E.N.D. sell our information? I wondered at one point considering how verbatim the script was, then I saw that there was a lot of information he would have had no way of knowing, things only witness by myself or the stars. Then again, all of this couldn’t have been only coincidence. It was impossible. It was like…

 …Magic?

 I set the script down and stood up slowly. For the umpteenth time since descending into modern Magnolia, I tried to summon my armor. It was a solid object, but in the past the stars would always give it to me upon request, yet as I pleaded with them now, nothing happened. And for the umpteenth time squared, I asked for my friends. Taurus, try to look at my undergarments. Virgo, ask me for punishments. Loki, flirt with me. I’d never taken those weird occurrences for granted before, but now I felt like I hadn’t appreciated them as much as I could have.

 “If you all are still here,” I said quietly, “I miss you.”

 Just as I expected, silence. But something else was for certain. I picked up the phone and dialed Makarov’s number, hoping that they hadn’t yet closed up.

 “Lucy, hello again,” he said as he answered. “You have an answer already?”

 “I think I’ve had an answer since you showed it to me.”

 “Is that so?” he questioned with that smug note from earlier.

 “I’ll accept the role.”

 “Great. You’ll hear more about the performance after all the other roles are casted, alright?”

 “Okay, thank you. Have a good night.” I hung up with an odd sense of foreboding in my belly.

  I woke up on the day of auditions and almost forgot that it was that, since it was usually my day off. I wasn’t late, but I showered and ate and dressed quickly out of habit, finding a flowy orange top and a denim skirt that I could put on quickly, also forgoing my usual heels for flat sandals. I took up my things and locked the door before heading out, greeting the landlady on my way to the Metrorail. It was faster and less crowded than the bus, albeit slightly more expensive.

 By the time I arrived at the theater, auditions were already in progress. I could tell because as I pushed into the lobby, the seats were crowded with actors. I got a few whistles and catcalls as I walked through but I didn’t pay them any attention. (I actually found it a curious thing, how men always seemed to trip over themselves when they saw me. I had a longstanding list of numbers to call all the time.) I burst into the theater as a possible was having a discussion with Gray, his back turned to me. I spotted Makarov, Laxus, and Erza seated up front, ready to take notes, and joined them.

 “You’re a little late,” Erza commented.

 “Yeah, I uh, forgot that auditions were today,” I admitted guiltily. “Sorry.”

 “It’s no problem! This is actually our first performer,” Makarov said glibly, gesturing to the man over on the side. Not long after, he stepped away from Gray with a laugh and sauntered confidently across the stage. He came to a stop right in front of us, a brilliant grin on his face, and I felt my whole world come to a stop.

 “Good morning, Mr. Dreyar and son, Ms. Scarlet, and…” He met my eyes while I still stuttered for breath, and slowly, E.N.D.’s grin morphed into a smug smirk. “My lovely guest judge.” He looked the same, same pink hair and same green eyes, but with a chambray shirt framing his shape and artfully worn jeans over untied Converse sneakers.

 “Lucy,” I supplied, finally catching my breath after what felt like millennia, but what must have actually been a few seconds. “Lucy Heartfilia, is my name.”

 “It’s my pleasure,” he said smoothly, getting down on one knee to give me a more personal smile. Then the bastard had the audacity to wink before rising. “I guess I don’t need to say I’m auditioning to be the Demon.” That being the male protagonist of the performance. I found that the naming, in comparison with all the other radiant details of it, was very insipid.

 “Yup,” Laxus said dully, leaning back with a hand supporting his arms. “Start anytime you’re ready, pinky.”

 “I have a name,” he said, touching his chest with a bit of a hurt inflection creeping into his tone. I had no way of knowing whether or not it was genuine. Laxus rolled his hand in a “go on” gesture and he snickered. “It’s Natsu Dragneel.” Natsu Dragneel… E.N.D. Etherious Natsu Dragneel. I had almost forgotten. He was once human, as was I, but…then what happened? I rubbed my head, trying to recall memories long lost to history. “And, well, uh, I’ll get started.” He jogged backwards until there was a decent distance between himself and us, which I was grateful for. It made me catch breath easier.

 “You won’t be reading from the script?” Erza inquired, pointing her pen at his empty hands.

 “No, I think I’ve got it memorized.” Like Makarov, Natsu spoke as if by a private joke, but unlike before, I’d a good idea what that joke was. He wiped his palms on his thighs, cleared his throat, and began to speak:

 “Littlest star—” I froze, the deep bass of his tone ringing through my ears like the bells of Cardia Cathedral. I could remember the exact moment he first called me that, back in the wetlands of X742, and he caught my surprise as well, because he locked eyes with me as he pressed on: “—your light is the beacon of the night where my darkness would otherwise reign as the supremacy. But, you see, I am not made irate by the fact: in fact, I find pleasure in your endless radiance. It is, after all, what makes this immortal life all the more worth it to live. People…no, calling us anything of that sort would be a cruel, gross lie…beings such as us could not find entertainment otherwise. Like that, let us clash again and again, over and over for the rest of eternity, until I finally catch your light between my claws and tear away your wings and crush you into stardust.” As he spoke, he cupped his hands before slapping them together on the last line, lips skewed.

 Oh my…

 “That was incredible,” Erza praised, beaming at him. Natsu grinned and bowed with exaggeration, but I could see his flushed cheeks and the light sheen of sweat over his forehead. He was impassioned—moreover, he was as into the moment as I was. My breath was coming quick and I feared I would pass out for a moment, but I managed to swallow my anticipation and regain my bearings.

 “Like Erza said,” I agreed a bit hoarsely.

 “Thank you very much, Lucy,” he said, putting particular emphasis on my name.

 “Humph,” Laxus grunted by means of his usual speech, but he had a trace of a smile as he did it. He may have been gruffer than Gajeel, but even he could get impressed.

 “I think it’s safe to say we were all pleased by your performance, Mr. Dragneel,” Makarov smiled. “You may leave now, and we’ll call you to let you know if you’ve made it, but to be frank, it seems like you’re a shoe-in.”

 “Great!” he exclaimed, beaming with that brilliance that reminded me of when he saw cows. Just like me, he had had a year to acquaint himself with contemporary civilization, and from his expressions to his mannerisms, I could tell he assimilated well, perhaps even better than I had. “Have a good day you guys…especially you, Ms. Heartfilia,” he added in a lower tone of voice, giving me a purposeful look as he walked off the stage and through the side exit.

 “I think you have a new bachelor,” Erza remarked, giving me a much-too-hard elbow nudge. I may or may not have nodded in return as I stood.

 “I’ll be back in a second,” I muttered, moving quickly as to not lose him. As I went through the exit and into the parking lot, I spotted Natsu marching towards the street. It wasn’t easy matching his long strides, but my old rapidity soon kicked in, and after a moment we were neck and neck.

 “Oh? I didn’t know you wanted to talk,” he said offhandedly, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes.

 “Don’t play games with me, E.N.D.!”

 “That’s how you want to play it now, Lucida?” His voice rumbled on the precipice of a growl, but he reigned himself in, pinching the bridge of his nose. He came to a stop on the sidewalk and so did I. “You got my attention, so now what?”

 “What? What in the world are you talking about? You’re the one that marched in on the life I’ve managed to build!” I retorted. He face-palmed, then let his hand rest at his cheek as he gave a weary sigh.

 “I think you’re the one that’s turned all inside-out and junk. This whole performance—a goddess and a demon? A woman of the stars and a man of the shadows? What else could it have been but my calling card? So I’m asking, What’re you trying to get at, calling me up?”

 “I wasn’t trying to call you up, but since you’re here, you might as well fill in blanks for me.” He made a frustrated noise and crossed his arms.

 “And for what? Why do I owe you answers?”

 “Owe me? Don’t you want to know what’s happened to us, why we’re here with no magic—”

 “See? Stop right there.” He put his hands on his hips. “No magic. Without magic, that Dark Magic that used to pour outta me like sweat from a fat guy hittin’ it at the gym, I’m normal. I can go and pet dogs and feed wild cats and swim in pools and— You get the picture. I’m not rushing to go back to being E.N.D. anytime soon.”

 “But—the universe’s balance relies on us—”

 “The universe was fine before we existed,” he interrupted.

 “No, it wasn’t! You read the script, didn’t you?” He nodded, eyebrows quirked. “You saw the story of the boy and girl—”

 “The fable, you mean?”

 “It’s not just a— Ugh! Didn’t you get the same feeling I did, Natsu? I felt like it was more than just words printed on paper—it felt like part of me. Part of the big picture. Part of why I can’t speak to my stars anymore and I’m just grounded here!” I was flailing my arms in my excitement but I couldn’t be bothered about it. Natsu gave me a curious look.

 “Sad story, littlest star, but things are outta my hands and into the universe’s. If she wants to toss you back your shiny trinkets, then hey, more power to her, but I’m not going to fight you again. No way in hell.” He turned away and started walking again, but I persisted.

 “Then why did you come, huh?”

 “I…” His steps faltered but he quickly recovered. “I heard this theater pays out the ass and I needed some quick cash. Unlike you with the star job, I do a lot of physical stuff—construction, deliveries, blah blah blah. Boring, tedious work, and doesn’t pay much more than your average Burger King. I figured nothing could be easier money than going on stage and acting like myself. It’d be the first time in a year that I bothered to, anyway.”

 I hadn’t actually considered that while I was extremely lucky to run into Gray and Erza as I did, Natsu hid away and didn’t have the same opportunity. I felt a little ashamed to admit that I hadn’t given much thought at all to how he had been making a living for the last year. As I knew him, he was a demon that killed everything he touched, but now he was just as human as me, and considering that I’d never seen his face posted up on CNN, he wasn’t out there committing murder.

 “Natsu,” I said as he tried walking off. He stopped but didn’t turn. I cleared my throat, wondering what in the world I was doing as I spoke, “As your possible costar…and as a fellow human…I’d like to take you to lunch.”

 “You’re kidding,” he said, but he ran back over and grabbed my shoulders with excitement in his eyes as he did so. “Where’s the food?”

 Well, it seemed that a year hadn’t changed him too much.

  We caught a bus to a place called 8Island. The owner, Yajima, used to work with Makarov back when they were in politics, but now he was content to make and serve good food. Similarly, Natsu was content to empty my wallet eating all of that good food.

 “Shrimp, fish, octopus, chicken, turkey, steak, pork, macaroni, tomatoes, mushrooms—” he said as he ate them, with an obnoxiously stuffed mouth to boot. I thought I had more food on my face than he had in his stomach as he worked his way through bowl after plate after dish, yet he never seemed full. Obviously, there still existed magic in this world.

 “Natsu, people are, err, staring.”

 “Wha?” He looked around at the crowd he was amassing and quite literally shrugged them off. “Ish no beg del.”

 “It is, in fact, a big deal…”

 “Sho wha? Zey neba sheen a min eat vafor?”

 “I’m sure they’ve never see a man eat like this…”

 “Zey can go vuk zemselvz!” I was more than happy not to respond to that one. After what felt like hours of eating on his part—and what actually might have been hours—he pushed away the last emptied china with a pleased hum. “Damn, haven’t eaten like that in a few centuries,” he grinned, locking his fingers behind his neck and leaning back in his seat. “But can I ask why you chose to feed me? We’re eternal enemies or whatever, aren’t we?”

 “I haven’t forgotten. But…there’s no satisfaction in kicking a downed opponent.” He gave me a look I couldn’t decipher, then stood with a huff.

 “Well, Lucida…or rather, Lucy now, I believe I should thank you for the meal.” He bowed at first, then straightened abruptly, and with a half-smile quirking his lips, Natsu extended a hand. I stood as well, wiping my palms anxiously on my shorts, but he waited patiently until I drew up the nerve to reach out, and I clasped my hand within his. His was larger, rougher, and his grip was firm as he shook my arm once. I looked up in time to catch his mischievous smile, the one that always led to a killer blow, right before he tugged hard, jerking me forward and against his chest. His other arm went around my back with that one going up to the back of my head. “Thank you for the meal,” he said into my ear.

 “What the— Get away from me!” I shoved him away so hard that his back hit against the window with a heavy thud. I was flushed from alarm and my hands shook as I held them out. He stared for a moment, disoriented, then caught himself.

 “Too much, I guess,” he chuckled, cracking his back. I didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. I dropped some money on the table without even glancing at the bill as it was brought over, and I collected my things and quickly moved past him. I wasn’t sure, but it felt like he tried to grab me again on my way out.

 Because I didn’t expect Natsu’s show of gluttony, I’d missed the bus I intended to take and had to catch a later one, which ended with me getting back to Fairy Tail after nearly all the auditions were over. The others looked at me inquisitively, but none asked me about my leave, which I was thankful for. Erza shared with me notes taken from the other actors and I scanned them absently. The one role that popped out to me was my other, the Demon.

 “There was a handful of other actors that auditioned, but it’s apparent that Natsu put the most emotion into it,” she said. “It’s almost like he was the Demon at some point.”

 “Possibly,” Makarov jested, “after all, Erza, the best stories are true.” She chuckled, but when he met my eyes, there was nothing but truth in his. They agreed to send emails out the following morning to roles with only one auditioned—those were the certain ones. The other ones would be sent by the end of the day, considering rehearsals started right after the weekend. And that was the end of that, except that it wasn’t the end of anything for me.

 By that night, I had poring over countless websites and texts for a long time. My eyes were sore and words were beginning to blur into one another, but I had to know. To be honest, I didn’t even know what I was looking for—it was one of those “you’ll know when you see it” deals. I was beginning to think that I’d wasted four hours of sleep when I saw it, and I knew.

 The girl and boy of the fable were named Mavis Vermillion and Zeref Dragneel. Dragneel, just like Natsu. By that time, I was beyond blaming it on my imagination and coincidence. Those two fought, and now we fought—or rather, we had been before Natsu deemed himself a pacifist. It meant something, I just didn’t know what.

 “Why did you two fight at all?” I whispered, so bleary that I expected a Wikipedia page to answer me back. I wanted it to tell me why those two fought, why we fought, why we were human now, why E.N.D. was simple Natsu Dragneel, and why my heart raced so when he surprised me. But the computer wasn’t magic, and no longer was I. Neither of us could provide the answers of the universe.

 X793

 The show was to begin and I wanted to jump through the window with a chest-clenching longing.

 Natsu, of course, got his part as the Demon, which meant that of all the other actors, we spent the most time talking, touching, and plain being together. While he was my adversary, I found it harder and harder to keep him at arm’s length, until his laughs became my laughs, and my smiles were his smiles. We were friends—at least, within his mind, the story was that. There was an incident while on stage that led to one of the spotlights breaking from its bearings. Natsu shoved me out of the way and both of us hit the ground as it smashed through the floorboards. My body was splayed beneath his, and when he opened his eyes to look at me, I was reminded of when we first surfaced in this new time.

 I was in love with E.N.D. I was in love with Natsu.

 I tried to distance myself, to let that demon seed wither and die, but it was hard to distance yourself from another when both of you were due to be leads in a performance. And the more time I spent with him, the less I was convinced that what I felt could be a lie. I had always heard the humans say “there’s a fine line between love and hate,” and at that moment I understood them perfectly: I was to believe that I hated him, the embodiment of all darkness and death, and yet my heart yearned for his touch. It made me understand Mavis and Zeref all too well. Still, I never let my walls down entirely, even as he joked and jested and gave me light butterfly touches all the time. It was how he was, he couldn’t help it.

 He enraptured the rest of the actors that way as well, and pulled Fairy Tail on his side, even though he and Gray argued more than they got along.

 Although Natsu refused to fight me on my terms, he had no choice otherwise during rehearsal. However, it was rehearsal: the entire thing was orchestrated. We were shown choreographed moves and were expected to do them with each other. It was a bit like dancing in that way, a dance the both of us were overly familiar with. The matter was awkward at first—we were used to going at each other for life or death, not for entertainment—but soon we had fallen into the rhythm, and if things went a little too far at times, it was laughed off.

 Then again, as we wore props that very much resembled my armor and him in a black suit or a drape of dragon’s scales, we both faltered more often than not, because it all began to feel so real. I didn’t know if he thought this too, but it dawned on me just how long we had been fighting. Eons, I’d said before, but that was as far as I remembered. Memories do fail—for all we know, we had been fighting since Mavis and Zeref. Acting and rehearsing gave me the epiphany that I’d been missing for a long while. I realized why Natsu was so averse to fighting me again, and to my surprise, I was beginning to share his sentiments.

 Makarov spoke with all of us actors the day before the show. The usual: he told us to get some rest for the night and show up bright and early and ready to amaze, because we were all amazing actors and all of Magnolia would see us bring to life a story onstage. He had this certain gumption about him that whatever he said would lit a fire within you, and so he never failed to be an inspiration.

 “Tomorrow will be great,” he said with all certainty. “It will be a show to end all shows, thanks to you dedicated and talented people. In fact, I’ve a feeling that it will be…magical.”

 Natsu and I exchanged a look. “Who does this guy think he is, Merlin?” he snorted. “There’s no magic around here—I’ve checked and checked and checked.”

 “Relax, it’s just something that he does.”

 “It’s insensitive,” he grumbled. “Like, you don’t point out that a fat guy’s fat.”

 “Natsu, that’s neither here nor there.”

 “No, in fact, it’s standing there in front of me and playing with my dreams.”

 “I know you’re an actor, but don’t be so dramatic.”

 “It’s what I’m good at,” he replied, smirking at me. I pretended to fiddle with the tail of my blouse as to hide my blush. Makarov caught me and sent me a grin.

 “See you all bright and early, ready for the show.”

 I was mid-window-jumping when Levy caught me.

 “Lucy! What are you doing?” she asked, appalled.

 “I can’t… I can’t do this Levy, I can’t. I’m leaving.”

 “Well, first of all, you’re not gonna fit through that window.” I was very aware of that fact, yes. “And second, don’t chicken out now!”

 “It’s not just that, but…”

 “But nothing! C’mon, Lu-chan, this is your big break!” It took a lot of cajoling, but eventually I climbed down from the window, and Levy smoothed out the wrinkles of my costume. I wore armor designed by an unknown source (Makarov was unusually tight-lipped about that) that, besides the chipping gold spray-paint, was a facsimile of my old set. Levy fixed my braid with her gentle hands before clapping them on my cheeks. “You’ll be perfect! Okay?”

 “O…kay…” I didn’t want to admit the sense of dread in my stomach lest I sound crazy, but it was there as Levy tugged me towards the other actors. They were chatting animatedly, everyone except Natsu, who stood off to the side with arms crossed and his back to me. I started towards him, his name on my lips, when Makarov’s voice rang out from in front of the lowered curtains:

 “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to our performance of The Stars Against the Night.” A short round of applause that he waited out before continuing. “This is also one of the rare occasions that we step outside of our family, so appreciate those who’ve stepped out of their shells to audition and have stood above the rest. The show—or rather, the story you will witness is of a girl who loved fairies and a boy who writhed with darkness, whose influence spanned across the centuries. Though it’s not explicitly stated, I’ve read the script, and I believe that the lesson to be drawn is that history makes its mark. It moves in an endless loop and can trap anyone in it. Knowing what’s behind you, then, can help you not make the mistakes of your ancestors, and to move forward in life.” He laughed. “Well, this is just an old man’s longwinded way of saying enjoy the show!”

 The applause was still going as Laxus and Erza ushered the two playing Mavis and Zeref into place. A desert landscape was used as a background, exquisitely painted by Reedus, and sand placed on stage courtesy of Max, though we had no idea where he got it from. I tried approaching Natsu, but the actor playing Loki asked to review his lines with me and I was pulled away. Before I knew it, the first act was already over, and Natsu and I had to move. Now we were going to interact whether we wanted or not.

 I stepped onto the stage with my palms itching consistently as Gray fiddled with Natsu’s costume. They bickered in the process, but it was more good-natured than anything, then Gajeel warned them that the curtain was about to rise. I looked up and caught Levy’s encouraging smile, then Gray’s thumbs-up and Erza’s confident nod. They believed in me…I tried to believe in me too.

 The curtains rose and Natsu came walking in from the opposite end of the stage, an artful trail of black dust trailing him just as back then. His eyes were slightly squinted, expression detached, and I fought the urge to swallow at his intensity. He came to a stop a handful of paces away, eyes roving my figure just as mine did his. I kept my bearings as Gray switched on a fan, providing a light gust for effect that stirred about the loose strands of hair over my face and chilled my skin.

 “Are you going to stand there and collect dust for the rest of eternity?” I goaded, letting the flat of my golden blade run across my metal-gloved palm. “If so, that makes my mission that much simpler.”

 “You are quite a sight to look at, is what distracts me,” he countered smoothly as the lights were reduced, bringing more attention to his rosy hair and jade eyes. “The heavens’ newest star that has personally come to end my existence… Why, I could not be more honored the universe would bother.”

 “It only means you are a nuisance, and one that needs plucking.” I flipped the sword with practiced precision, and it handed hilt-first with the tip pointed at E.N.D.—err, Natsu. Then I clutched it tight with both hands and charged.

 “Good luck attempting so, fair maiden.” He sidestepped my attack and seized me by the face in the process, shoving me back and hard. I hit the ground with my body tucked inwards and rolled into a crouch. I used the lingering impetus to spring forward with a sideswipe attack. He gripped the sword and wrenched it from my hands with a hiss as the squib was detonated beneath his clawed glove, and corn syrup dyed black seeped onto the floor. “Mm… You’ve wounded me,” he said with a smirk, letting the blade hit the floor.

 “I’ll do more than that.” I replied, taking a gold-glittered whip from my belt and unravelling it. We exchanged blows over and over, acting out a few close-calls that had the audience catching their breath and exhaling all at the same time. Sweat beaded on my brow—I’d never thought it would be so arduous to pretend to fight, but we fought onstage just as we fought in reality: hard and ceaselessly. With only five minute breaks at a time to change backdrops and costumes, we spent the majority of the performance exchanging staged blows.

 Is this really what it was like? I thought as his dragon’s claws clashed with my saber, locking us in a stalemate. Clashing with E.N.D. for a handful of centuries… I never realized how tiring it was. It’s only been forty minutes and I’m exhausted—what did that eon feel like?

 “You won’t be relenting anytime soon, will you?” Natsu sighed. He was just as clammy and out of breath as I was, which put real exhaustion into his tone.

 “Never,” I snapped, dredging up the last of my energy to put it into the fury required. “You are a creature of rot and destruction, of darkness and death. You should not be allowed to wander this earth and pain its inhabitants.”

 I couldn’t say what happened then, since I had said that line many times during rehearsal and all went well, but Natsu’s eyebrows jumped as his eyes bugged with alarm. I didn’t mean it, but I could tell in that moment that he took it as seriously as when we were fighting for blood.

 “Is…that so?” he hummed, a dangerous smile crossing his face. “Says the feeble star who wouldn’t shine if not for the others’ pity.”

 “Feeble star?” I echoed incredulously. My hands tightened around the hilt as I pressed harder, stepping closer until he and I were nose to nose. “What do you know of the stars, you wretch? Your darkness blots them out of the sky.”

 “It’s not as if the people need to see them anyhow. They do nothing but revel in their plains—why, then, do they let me roam freely while you’re the only one who troubles yourself?”

 “Because they have larger matters to—”

 “Don’t belittle me, littlest star!” he interrupted with a shout, eyes blazing like emerald flames. The weapon was swept from my hands and sent skidding across the polished wood of the stage. The next second, his human fist was twisted in the collar of my undershirt tight enough to choke my breath. “The benevolent, merciful stars have never once troubled themselves with me! While you cried out in mourning, I’ve lost my parents woe is me, the stars answered your pleas and made you great.” He thrusted me backwards so harshly that I almost lost my footing. When he met my eyes again, there were tears in the corner of his. “What about the boy who was stolen from his brother by the darkness, eh? What about him?”

 “Natsu! Lucy!” Gray hissed from offstage. It wasn’t peculiar for Fairy Tail to improvise—more often than not, the script would become an outline with the most memorable acting occurring onstage—but the two of us were getting out of hand. I gasped at the sight of his tears, feeling like I was being drawn from a fugue.

 “Natsu, I—”

 “They did nothing!” he roared, clenching his fists to hide their trembling. “They did nothing but watch from the heavens as I suffered. And you, and you, little Lucida Sidera, you never tried to help, did you? It’s far easier to sever a diseased plant than nurse it back to health, isn’t it?”

 “It’s impossible to revive a dead plant,” I amended. His eyes narrowed as he let out a vicious chuckle.

 “That’s how it is, then? This supposed friendship we had, and all the while you’ve been thinking what a lost cause I am… I suppose I’ve always known it.” He raised his clawed hand, and for a second I thought I saw some of the blackness flake off of it. “Well, we won’t have that issue any longer, will we?” And he ran forward and swung. I was slow to react, so even though I managed to roll out of the way, I felt my breastplate give. As I looked at it, I saw three deep scores like claw marks left by a bear.

 That’s impossible… Those claws are fake…

 I didn’t have time to ponder it as he spun and came at me again, claws out. I wasn’t imagining it: there was a dark dust radiating from part of his body and trailing behind him like ash. From all my research, I had been sure that no ethernano still existed within the atmosphere, but my eyes now proved me wrong. Then again, that was the beautiful thing about magic: it often shattered expectations.

 I took up my sword and slashed to parry his attack, and upon contact with the saber sparks flew. I took another look at the prop and saw that it had become untarnished silver, surrounded by an aura of my old Celestial Magic. I had almost forgotten how good it could feel: my body was lighter, the air tasted cleaner, and I was once again Lucida Sidera. Then again, as I beheld the darkness clouding most of his extremities and part of his face, bringing his soft hair into an unkempt mess, I realized that yet again, E.N.D. and I would clash.

 Another swipe of his claws shattered the silver of the blade, and as he came around again, I stabbed the remaining bit into his shoulder. He hissed and recoiled, viscous black blood and Dark Magic leaking from the injury. I clenched my hand and pulled the other back, and a bow formed of Celestial Magic appeared in my grip. I nocked a golden arrow and shot it into his lower belly. He growled as he pulled it free, now stained black as the night, and rushed forward before slamming it down on my chest. The armor glittered before repelling him with a blast of light.

 “Still as radiant as ever,” E.N.D. said acerbically, shaking off his scorched hand. I glanced at the crowd from the corner of my eye: they were stunned, but leaning forward in their seats. I didn’t want them to stay and risk getting hurt, but there was no safe way to say “I’m an envoy of the stars and he’s a demon of death” without causing panic—if we were even believed. We were still actors, after all, and they thought it was a show.

 “What happened to not wanting to fight, huh?” I yelled, nocking three arrows at once and letting them all fly. He deflected them with a swipe of his claws and lashed out with his foot. I caught his ankle with my bow and swung him away quickly, but the string had already snapped. He landed on a knee and spun around, his human hand caking over with Dark Magic until it too was clawed and coming at me. I drew up enough magic to form two longswords and crossed them to block the attack, but I hadn’t the energy left to force him away.

 “I changed my mind,” he grinned, but it held none of his usual warmth. “This is what you want, right? To have both of us skewered and on our way through the ethernano again?”

 “I… Maybe, it was, but…” I shook my head quickly and took a sluggish step forward, then another, and I kept going until I had him retreating backwards to keep his bearings. “That’s neither here nor there! Do you want to hurt those around you? I’m sure that’s not what you want!” His eyes flickered, but only for a moment.

 “It’s not,” he admitted dully. “But hurting you, that’s a big goal of mine right now.” He threw his arms in the air, causing me to stagger forward from my force, and slapped a hand down on my back. He quickly withdrew from the scorches, but he did it: my breastplate fell to the ground in pieces blacked at the edges, leaving me in nothing but a loose undershirt. I may have been without my armor, but he had bleeding burns up and down his arms. I took advantage of that as I clasped my magic-encased hands around them, causing him to writhe and scream in agony before he finally sent me on my back. I rolled to my feet as he whimpered softly, great globs of darkness hitting the ground as he stood, shuddering and shaking. “Hurts…haven’t felt pain like that in…hurts…” he muttered, fingers twitching as he tried to clasp his hands into fists.

 “I hope the pain may humble you.” I lunged forward and tackled him to the ground, pinning his throat with the flat of my blade. The delicate skin there sizzled in contact with my celestial bronze, but this time he maintained a boiling glare.

 “Do it,” he rasped, reaching up with trembling hands towards my neck. “Let’s do this all over again.”

 “E.N.D.—” It occurred to me, then, what I was doing. While reading the story of Mavis and Zeref, I realized how fine the line between love and hate could be, and crouching there with my longtime foe’s life in my hands, I felt those words to be truer than ever.

 “Please,” I pleaded softly, letting the swords hit the ground and vanish into ethernano. “Natsu, don’t make me kill you.”

 “Don’t make you? Have I ever made you do anything in our long past?” he rumbled. “It was you who always sought me out and you who always gave the first blow.”

 “But things are different now! We were together, we sat together and joked and laughed and—don’t tell me that didn’t mean as much to you as I did to me,” I whispered. He looked at me dubiously.

 “I don’t think it meant anything to you,” he retorted, but he averted his eyes as he spoke. He was frightened beneath that anger—I should know.

 “There is a fine line between love and hate. Mavis and Zeref loved each other, but fought all the same. Their rancor still taints the universe to this day.”

 “You’re still speaking of fables, littlest star? It’s a story—it’s only a story!” I froze, because it suddenly came to me. I had an epiphany in the form of a memory:

 “Though it’s not explicitly stated, I’ve read the script, and I believe that the lesson to be drawn is that history makes its mark. It moves in an endless loop and can trap anyone in it. Knowing what’s behind you, then, can help you not make the mistakes of your ancestors, and to move forward in life.”

 “Makarov knows,” I murmured. “Natsu…don’t you see? We’re the idiots here.”

 “You’re one to talk,” he muttered. I shook my head vigorously and skipped away from him. He watched me carefully as he pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he bent his arms.

 “George Santayana once said: ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ Natsu, we’ve been fighting and fighting and fighting for eons, and why? Why do we fight? It’s because of Mavis and Zeref!” I said to him. “They’ve made their mistakes as all do, but we never learned from them. Hell, we’ve never learned from our own mistakes!”

 “What are you getting at?” he stated flatly.

 “I’m saying fighting isn’t the answer.” He stared for a moment before laughing aloud.

 “Ha! Now that’s rich, coming from you.”

 “I’m serious!” I fumed. His laughter died away until it was only his eyes following me, and he started a slow and purposeful stalk across the stage.

 “The answer, I believe, is what we’ve been doing.” With each step, the wood rotted and collapsed beneath him, creating ominous snapping noises that startled Fairy Tail and the guests alike. I was surprised that his clothes held up as long as they had. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. “You wanted to play with me? Then fine, you’ll get what you asked for.” He’s hurt, on the inside, I thought. And the only way he can think of remedying himself is by hurting me in turn. He never got to be with humans, never got to be a human, and neither the stars nor I have done anything to fix that.

 “You’ve made mistakes,” I said quietly as he drew near, “and so have I, so have the stars. But now, I want to make right with the universe. I’m going to do what Mavis and Zeref should’ve done millennia ago, and what I should’ve done months ago.” He stopped right in front of me and raised his arm. I didn’t know what he wanted to do and I never found out, because then I grabbed his hand, claws and all, and intertwined our fingers.

 “Natsu,” I said, bringing wide emerald eyes to mine. I was reminded of when he saw the cows, of when I offered him food, and of thousands of little moments after as we rehearsed. “No matter what has been said and done between us, my heart has made its decision.” I put my other hand on his cheek, feeling my skin warm in contact with his, but neither of us flinched away. It felt as if we were in a private space bubble away from it all—the stage, the audience, everything but the two of us was gone. “Now, and always, I will love you.”

 And I kissed him.

 “Lucy,” he murmured against my lips, his breath coming out in warm, quick pants. “T…Thank you…” He put his other hand around my waist, and tugged, pulling my body flush against his, and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Warmth spread out between us, almost painful in its intensity, and I feared we would be reduced to nothingness, but as I clung to him, I felt the void-like presence of his Dark Magic whittle away until there was nothing but smooth skin beneath my grip. The remains of my armor melted into light so bright that it blinded us of all else. As I blinked into the brilliance, I saw another girl staring at me. Long, pale hair curled to her bare feet, and her teal eyes brightened with her smile as she bounded over and wrapped her arms around me.

 “Thank you,” she whispered, and all at once, I understood that I was seeing Mavis.

 “Thank you.” She disappeared into a flurry of lights like little fairies, and across from me, a dark form dressed in black robes with a white sash was murmuring into Natsu’s ears. He turned to regard me with eyes as black as the night, then gave a serene smile before he melted into several ink blots that faded into the glow. The lights coalesced and shot up towards the ceiling before bursting. It fell over us and the stage like golden rain, and Natsu pulled away to bask in the shimmering light. “It feels…warm,” he whispered, awed. “The good warm.”

 “It’s the warmth of the stars,” I said. And if I squinted into their brightness, I was certain I could see my old friends’ smiling faces within the radiance, watching from the heavens. The sight brought tears to my eyes, and I laughed. When I looked down, I saw that the remains of our magic had vanished, the scratches and holes gone from the stage.

 “Well,” Natsu said loudly, “I guess that’s all, folks.” He took my arm and linked it with his. “That was our, ahem, special performance, The Stars Against the Night. There was no winner, but there doesn’t always gotta be one, amiright?” And he pulled me into his subsequent bow.

 The building erupted with applause and shouts.

 “That was amazing!”

 “It was so real!”

 “The emotions—wow, those guys were really into it!”

 “The special effects were off the chain!”

 “You guys rock!”

 “Cool!”

 We had a standing ovation, the sight of which made me blush, but Natsu grinned and held onto me to keep me from running.

 Afterwards, of course we were bombarded with questions from the other Fairy Tail members. I shifted uneasily until Natsu gave an annoyed grumble and, in the span of two sentences, conveyed our eons of struggling. I found it to be a ridiculous underestimation, but his closing statement, “And now we kissed so it’s happy ever after and shit again,” made me laugh hard enough to let it go.

 “So, if you two…reincarnated…at the same time,” Gray said slowly, trying to wrap his head around it, but everyone was a little confused, “where were you when we found Luc…Lucida?”

 “Lucy is fine.”

 “I was in the bushes,” Natsu said with a sheepish smile. “I, uh, your car scared me.”

 “Speaking of, how did you know they were coming?” I asked him.

 “My hearing and smell stayed the same,” he shrugged. “I forgot to tell you?”

 “You idiot.”

 “I’m your idiot,” he countered with a grin. They kept up with the questions until Makarov finally called us to the privacy of his office, and good—I needed to ask him some questions.

 “You knew,” I said as soon as the door shut. “You knew about us, about Mavis and Zeref…how?”

 “An…old friend told me,” Makarov said with a smile. “She’s gone, now that her last task of this world has been completed, as is her lover.”

 “Mavis and Zeref have been here all this time?” I asked incredulously.

 “Their spirits, more like. Their arguments left them unsatisfied even upon their deathbeds, and for eons they’ve watched their troubles become the troubles of two like them—you and Natsu.” He waved a hand at us before folding them atop his desk. “But now, I believe they will rest in peace.”

 “So will we,” Natsu said before I could speak, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. “Because, ah…whatcha say, Luce? Those who condemn history don’t know it so they retake it…?”

 “Not even close,” I sighed. “Mr. Dreyar—”

 “Makarov,” he amended.

 “Makarov, does this mean that we’re fine now?”

 “You’re entirely human, if that’s what you mean. The last vestiges of magic are gone from both of you. You’re no longer bound by your fates—you’re free to live life as you wish, my children,” he said with a grin.

 “Then…I choose to live my life with Natsu, as long as that will be.”

 “Just the same,” Natsu said with a soft smile. “I never knew that love could be a real thing, not twisted or nothing like that, but now, I wanna hold onto what I got with Lucy and never let it go. Damn, I sound like a stupid poetry book, don’t I?”

 “Don’t worry, I don’t love you any less for it,” I smiled, touching his cheek. He grasped my hand and closed his eyes, leaning into my touch.

 “This is a beautiful thing…touching,” he murmured. “And to think I’ve gotta whole life to touch and experience…”

 Makarov stood and regarded us both with a wide smile. “You’ve broken free from the hold that old history had on you,” he said, glancing out his window at the sunny, cloudless sky before going past us and opening the door. “Now you two can make new history. Your history.”

#fairy tail #fairytail #fairy tail nalu #ft fanfiction #ft oneshot #romance #Drama #action #natsu dragneel #natsu x lucy #natsudragneel #lucy heartfilia #lucyheartfilia #Dragon Taming

[joshuabradleyn]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[albertcaldwellne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[ruthellisneda]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[johnclapperne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[neilmillerne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[almajonesnjna]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2wizw1P

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[almajonesnjna]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[neilmillerne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[albertcaldwellne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[joshuabradleyn]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[ruthellisneda]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.

[johnclapperne]

{#TransparentTuesday} Black men.

Lately I’ve been purposefully making eye contact with black men.

This might be a strange thing to read– it was a  strange thing to write– but it’s the truth.

For the last month, I’ve been deep-diving through educational books written by people of color on the problem of racism in our society. I won’t go into everything I’ve learned so far, because it’s far too vast, too deep, and too complex.

Instead I want to tell you about my experience with black men.

Like many white people, I initially learned about black men through indirect sources like rap music, movies, news, and statistics. I learned that black men were defined by their baggy outfits, unprovoked violence, loud music, and propensity for crime.

I learned that black men were inherently terrifying.

In order to maintain this belief, I made exceptions for every black man I knew personally. The black men I knew wore sweaters, or dance tights, or skinny jeans. They spoke eloquently and wisely. They went to training seminars, and held space for me when I cried, and shared their own ideas and dreams and heartbreak.

There was absolutely nothing scary about these men, so I didn’t really consider them “black.”

Which is a huge problem.

These men felt “normal” They felt just like me. And since I had been taught that “blackness” meant “otherness,” I assumed that surely I just had never met a “real” black man.

I imagined he would look different, he would look BLACK. I’m talking about the kind of young black men who seem shrouded in violence and anger, with dark clouds of violence emanating off them, their body language unnaturally fast, somehow looking guilty and threatening as they emerge from shadowy alleys.

As I unpacked the layers of my unconscious beliefs and biases around this topic, I realized that the kind of black man to which I refer is an absolute fantasy. It’s no more real than the image of a prince charming, hair combed perfectly, with a halo of soft light around him as he gallops in on a white horse to save the day.

The black man of my unconscious imagination is fantastically dangerous. Inhuman, almost, in the way my mind has painted him.

A few weeks ago, when I realized I was afraid of black men, I also realized that the black men I was afraid of didn’t actually exist. That is, the thing I’m afraid of– this hideously dangerous inhuman beast– does not, and has not ever, existed.

This really shook me.

Because for as long as I can remember, I have been crossing streets to avoid walking near a black man on the sidewalk. I have been careful to avoid eye contact with black male teenagers at the mall.

And I suddenly had no idea why.

I sat down and did some digging. What was I afraid would really happen on the sidewalk, or at the mall, if I came too close to a black man?

Assault, I suppose.

But… how? In plain daylight, at the mall food court? Am I afraid that a teenager will take my eye contact as a sign of aggression and jump me? Or that if I walk too close to a man on the sidewalk he’ll take the opportunity to lunge at me?

Oh, god.

How I wish the answer to these questions was no.

As I have wrestled with this over the last month, I have been floored at how utterly stupid and illogical and FUCKING WRONG this fear is, but there it is:

I have, for my entire life, lived in fear that a black man will see me, have some irrepressible violent urge, leap at me, and then… I don’t know, rape or theft or murder?

(As I write this, my skin is flushing a painful crimson. I am so horribly embarrassed and ashamed to admit this.)

I recognized that my fear was based in a completely untrue fantasy, and that I have been afraid of black men only because I was taught (through media messages as well as family and community messages) that black men are scary in a rather non-specific but urgent way.

I recognize that this is false, but the programming is deep in my body.

No matter what I tell my brain right now, my body still responds to black male strangers as though they are a threat.

And the worst part is knowing that these black men can feel it.

That they know why I crossed the street.

They see me check that my purse is zipped when they come around a corner.

They feel my mistrust.

I’m not unusual in this fear, or these habits. If you’re a white woman, this unconscious dance might all sound mighty familiar. Having just finished the book Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates, I am starting to realize just how much damage I’ve done.

These men are individual people, with unique likes and dislikes, interesting stories, and a desire to be loved and accepted. For my whole life, I have been making them feel mistrusted, suspect, unliked, “othered,” inhuman.

For this reason, I would like to formally apologize to all black men.

I am so sorry, and so ashamed that I made you feel like a threat. I am so sorry, and so embarrassed that in those moments you had to see yourself through my eyes, complete with the cloudy halo of violence, as you ate Taco Bell and spent time with your friends, or as you walked home after work, or really any time, ever.

Which brings me to my resolution to stay my path on the sidewalk when a black man walks toward me, and to purposefully, warmly, make eye contact.

I wish I could report that this was easy, and natural. That now that I have seen the error of my ways, everything is better.

But it honestly takes every bit of willpower that I have.

I see the man, and I resolve to stay relaxed, keep my body language open, continue walking the same path I would walk had he not been there, and make eye contact. For a moment, I feel good.

Then my body starts sounding the alarms.

“TURN LEFT,” my body screams. My breathing becomes shallow and I blanche at the awkwardness of trying to both breathe and walk at the same time. How can I make eye contact when it’s taking all my energy to keep walking this direction?

I make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. As often as possible I use my voice to say “good morning” or “hello.” Sometimes I go to use my voice though, and a squeaky gurgle comes out, and I wonder if my little experiment is doing more harm than good.

Many men have seemed surprised, and a few have begun to pause, to interact, as though I was going to act them directions, before realizing I was just saying hi. One man scared the shit out of me by trying to get my number, but for the most part I get confused-but-pleasant nods, smiles, or simple hellos back.

I have no idea if this is a good idea.

I have no idea if this is an appropriate goal, or an appropriate email.

All I know is that since I began this experiment, my body has relaxed a little, and it’s slowly getting easier.

I also know that the eyes I use to look at black men are different than they were a month ago. I see people now. Individuals, rather than a collective mass. The cloud of danger is gone, and now I can see them how I see everyone else: interesting, unique, utterly lovable.

I didn’t even realize that this wasn’t true before.

I didn’t even realize how much I had to unpack about race.

There is still so much work to do.

<3

Jessi

PS I specifically did not mention black women or women of color in this email because I don’t know how to talk about that subject yet. Next up I’m reading White Spaced, Missing Faces: Why Women of Color Don’t Trust White Women, so as always, I’ll keep you posted.

The post {#TransparentTuesday} Black men. appeared first on Jessi Kneeland.

http://ift.tt/2yqsRDf

#{TransparentTuesday} Black men.