#fanny is better for him in the end because their beliefs about the world are so aligned and she actually respects him as a person

[sailforvalinor]

Who doesn't like Edmund??????? HOW can they not like Edmund?????????? He's the best of the Bertrums!!!!

Well, to be fair, being the best of the Bertrams is not too difficult, lol.

But yes, a LOT of people dislike Edmund, like, probably the majority of the Austen community. I agree!!! It’s so frustrating!!!

Like, Darcy insulted Elizabeth’s family to her face and actively separated her sister from the man she loved, Captain Wentworth ignored Anne’s existence and courted other girls in front of her on purpose, Edward was engaged to another woman while courting Elinor, and we give them passes, but we come down so hard on Edmund for *checks notes* letting Mary ride on Fanny’s horse for too long.

Yes yes, obviously there was more to that incident, but the point still stands—Edmund has committed far less grievous mistakes than most Austen heroes, but he’s the most hated. Why is this??

There’s a couple reasons for this, I think: we never get to see him actually in love with Fanny, and, unlike most Austen heroes, he never gets to perform any sort of grand gesture to make amends for his mistakes. We know that he does fall in love with Fanny and that these amends must have been made (especially seeing how quick he is to apologize to Fanny when he realizes he's been neglecting her in other places in the novel), but Austen deliberately chooses to narrate these events without actually giving them to us directly. Admittedly, this frustrates me, but I understand why: Mansfield Park is not a love story. There is a romance in the story, but that isn't what the narrative is fundamentally concerned with--the narrative is fundamentally concerned with Fanny's development and strength of character independent of (you might even say in spite of) the other characters in the novel. Unlike Pride and Prejudice or Emma, Fanny's character development is not incited by the actions of the hero (which, to be clear, I don't have any issue with--Mansfield Park just has a different narrative formula). Fanny overall is what you might call a static character--not in the sense that she is not fleshed-out or well-developed, but in that she does not go through a lot of character change. Rather, instead of her arc being about changing to become a better person, her arc is about her struggle to remain the good person that she is in spite of outside pressure to change to become more like the rest of the world. (For a really good example of a static character arc, look no further than Captain America!) It's not that Fanny doesn't go through any character growth whatsoever, she definitely does, but this growth overall roots her more deeply into what she believed before, rather than inciting change. The more I think about it, actually, the more it seems like Mansfield Park is a typical "Austen" story told from the perspective of the love interest.

It is actually Edmund who goes through the more dynamic character arc that we associate with most protagonists--which is why I've been thinking for ages that a retelling of Mansfield Park from his perspective could be REALLY interesting. Because told from his perspective, Mansfield Park undoubtedly becomes a love story where it did not hold that status previously. And Edmund would make such a great protagonist!!! There is SO MUCH about his character that I find absolutely fascinating. He of course has a very strong moral compass, which is something I've always admired him for, and despite his attraction to Mary and delusion about her character, is never once even tempted to change his profession from a clergyman to earn Mary's love. We really don't give Edmund enough credit for coming out so well-adjusted and morally upright as he did, coming from a family like the Bertram's. He is also fundamentally very kind, but what's so interesting about him is that he is not, though he certainly tries, always the most attentive. He certainly never neglects Fanny on purpose and is horrified when he finds out that he has, but the fact still remains that he is not the most emotionally perceptive (I'm actually very tempted to draw some parallels between him and Catherine Morland here). Edmund possesses a lot of book-smarts, but is somewhat lacking in social intelligence--or, for lack of a better term, street-smarts. I don't know what textual evidence there is to support this, but I've always had the impression that up until the beginning of the novel, Edmund hadn't had much experience mingling in society, given how as soon as he finished college he was brought straight home to manage Sir Bertram's estate while he was away in Antigua. Regardless of whether or not this is actually the case, it's clear that Edmund is a terrible judge of character despite how morally upright he himself is, which is absolutely fascinating to me. (Again! Catherine parallels!!) Fanny makes a direct contrast to Edmund in this regard--she does not possess the same book knowledge or have the advantage of the education that he had, but she is, though unconsciously, the most emotionally intelligent person in the room and the best judge of character in the entire book.

It is this contrast, but with their shared beliefs about the world and what is right and good, that cements my belief in how well-suited they are for each other. Edmund does not challenge Fanny to change, but Fanny's steadfastness of character does motivate Edmund to change--when he realizes that she perceived what sort of person Henry Crawford was all along and that she was right to refuse him, it exposes to him just how blind he is to the character of others. Edmund basically goes through the same sort of arc that Austen's heroines go through, but this time the roles have been reversed! IT'S JUST SO COOL

Anyway, sorry for rambling. TL;DR, I'm not going to try to convince you that Edmund Bertram is on the same level as Mr. Knightley or Mr. Tilney, but PLEASE examine him critically before you write him off as trash, because he really isn't.

#blorbo from my regency novels #sorry this took so long i wanted to be able to give a full reply #i held myself back from giving my take on the edmund x mary shippers because that would've been a LOT #but suffice it to say i hate it given how much mary fundamentally disrespects his profession and therefore his goals in life #could she have changed her mind someday? maybe but it would take a lot of work #fanny is better for him in the end because their beliefs about the world are so aligned and she actually respects him as a person #which is. you know. why she's the one he ended up with #(also i feel like people would be MUCH more offended by her attacking ed's chosen profession if it were literally anything other than him #going into the clergy. just saying) #mansfield park #edmund bertram #fanny price #jane austen #edmund bertram defense squad

[lovelyirony]

okay but hear me out hear me out hear me OUT: hunger by ross copperman for rhodeytony

Everyone knows that Tony would die for Rhodey. It’s as easy to see as green grass or a blue sky. He would burn everything down for Rhodey. 

Something that others don’t catch onto is how willing Rhodey is to do the exact same. Rhodey doesn’t often tell people his side of the story of how the two met. 

As it turns out, Rhodey wasn’t supposed to be in room 63-J, he was supposed to be in 65-J. Due to mix-ups in housing and a particularly horrible employee, Rhodey was moved into what was supposed to be a private room. 

“I’m, um, sorry,” Rhodey says. “I can move to a different room, I just have to email the people--” 

“Uh-uh, don’t worry about it,” Tony says, eyes shining. “There’s more than enough space in here, and I’d really prefer to have a roommate. I’ve never really shared anything before!” 

Tony is a small seventeen year old. Rhodey is eighteen, takes one look at this kid who could honestly pass for fifteen, and realizes that he knows nothing about the real world. Absolutely nothing. His head is empty, and he has no idea about that either. 

So Rhodey stays. He teaches Tony how to do things, although Tony isn’t completely helpless. He loves doing laundry and he knows how to cook some serious gourmet shit. 

This is how Rhodey learns how to make his own pasta, and Tony smiles as he smears flour against his cheek. 

Rhodey teaches Tony what coffee to drink, which restaurants are the best. (This does not stop Tony from eating at Burger King near-religiously.) Tony learns how to dress how he wants, and to stop showing up to classes in what is essentially a full suit. 

Tony falls in love with old jeans, worn band tees that he finds after combing through racks of all the thrift stores. 

He laughs as he makes Rhodey get a neon orange fanny pack. 

“Since you claim you always lose your shit at parties,” Tony teases, grinning. 

Tony’s a kid. 

And yet...not a kid. 

He knows immediately who to trust, who to avoid. The way he phrases things has Rhodey’s head going in circles. He’s brilliant with people, to a point where he can drive anyone away. 

Except for Rhodey. 

He made a promise over Thanksgiving break, when Tony realized that his mother penned a note explaining that “darling, your father and I are still in the Maldives, so you have free reign of the house for Thanksgiving...” 

It meant that he would be Completely Alone. 

Well, Rhodey wasn’t having that. 

“If I have to clean the carpet, I’m forcing you with me,” Rhodey says. “And I promised that I would bring a dessert, and I know that you make killer tiramisu.” 

“If I only have to prove that I’m clearly the better roommate, then so be it,” Tony says dramatically. “Take me away, Jim-dear.” 

(He cannot stop calling him that after they stole the VCR of Lady and the Tramp from the English department’s catalog. Not like they’re gonna miss it. 

Rhodey cannot stop thinking about how much he really, actually loves it, that nickname.) 

Tony is shy when he gets to the house, although Dad immediately pulls Tony into the family. 

“Rhodey promised us a dessert but I know that he didn’t inherit my cooking skills, so I’m assuming he’s just promised you,” he says. 

“Yes he has, Mr. Rhodes,” Tony says, grinning. “How do you feel about tiramisu?” 

Tony later on impresses Mrs. Rhodes--from that night on, referred to lovingly as “Mama”--with his piano playing skills. Tony’s perfect memory reads notes as if he’s always known them, and plays piano with a skilled sort of ease. He even adds his own little stylings, making it even better as Rhodey watches his parents dance. 

They haven’t done that in years, not since Rhodey was little and they still had the old record player with Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington records stacked to the side among others. 

Tony laughs along with the music, grinning as his little sister tells him every single embarrassing story about Rhodey. 

“He thought watermelons grew on trees,” Jeannette says, cackling. “Can you believe that?!” 

“I can,” Tony says, putting a finger to his chin. “And I think that if no one had told you, you still would.” 

“Of course if no one had told me I still would! That’s how belief works!” Rhodey calls out. 

“Shush,” Mama says, smoothing a hand over Rhodey’s hair. “Some people are dumb, baby, it’s okay.” 

Rhodey makes an offended squawk, and Tony laughs. 

They go to sleep in Rhodey’s bed. It’s a queen, not like they both can’t fit onto it. 

And if Rhodey wakes with Tony curled into his arms, soft breathing? If Rhodey realizes that life could be like this all the time if they really wanted it to? 

Well. It’s not the worst thought in the world to have. Not by a long shot. 

- 

This feeling continues on long after they graduate, when they start spending every holiday they can together. They always make a dessert together and Rhodey always gets something Super Shit from the thrift store. 

Last year, it was a mug proclaiming “Best Regional Staff Manager of 1978.” He has just discovered that he could custom-order a burnt orange shag carpet, and Tony will put it into his bedroom. 

And then Afghanistan. 

Rhodey grieves like nothing else. He is almost always dehydrated from crying, he can barely eat, and Pepper has to check in on him. 

“You smell bad,” she tells him one night. 

“I know.” 

“Go shower.” 

“Later.” 

“No, now. I swear to god if Tony knew you smelled this disgusting, he’d douse you in Chanel no. 5, and I know how you feel about that.” 

Rhodey manages to get out a small smile. 

He showers. He feels a bit better. 

And he starts looking. 

Everyone in his squad and in the military itself thinks he’s crazy for still looking. The chances of Tony being alive are less than fifty percent. He is most likely dead, but Rhodey can’t stop looking. He just can’t. 

He gets Tony in his arms months later, skinny and frail and yet still so alive. Rhodey tells him he’ll never let go. 

“Not even to let me take a wizz?” Tony asks, smile weak. Rhodey laughs and lets a little bit of tears slip out. 

He does something that was not supposed to happen. 

He leaves the military. 

Realizes that that isn’t what he wants, night after night, to count down days until he’s back in Tony’s arms. He wants to work alongside his someone, to smile at him, and cook breakfast. 

It’s at this time when Tony keeps coming into his room. 

“Like old times?” he asks. Begs, almost. Rhodey nods. 

“Always, Tones. You know that.” 

Tony introduces him to Iron Man, and Rhodey oohs and ah’s, questioning what works and why it had to be that garish, bold red. 

“Aw sweetheart, who else would pick such a color scheme?” 

Rhodey grins and asks when he’s getting his own suit. 

“I do not believe in a god, but I think I might start praying,” Jarvis says dryly, and they both snicker. 

It is Rhodey who helps keep Tony from working himself to the bone, forcing him to come with him. 

“Come on, it’s pizza night and you have to help me make breadsticks otherwise I’m not putting on enough garlic butter.” 

“Rhodey I know that you love garlic butter so this is essentially an empty threat but I will and can kill you.” 

Rhodey snorts as Tony chases him around the kitchen. 

Then the Avengers. 

Natalie Rushman comes into Tony’s life, and Rhodey just knows she isn’t who she says she is. 

Doesn’t help that Tony’s reckless and trying to hide a pretty impressive crossword along his chest. 

What’s an eleven-letter-word meaning “a destroying agency?” 

(Destruction.) 

He doesn’t let her even near Tony. 

“I’m supposed to be here,” Natalie says plainly. She has a coy smile on her face. 

She does not know that for a wild variety of reasons, this will not work on Rhodey. 

“So am I,” Rhodey says evenly. “So I guess we’ve come to a stalemate. I’ll give him the paperwork. You can ask Pepper about the gala’s appetizers and security measures, as I’m sure you have questions.” 

He knows she doesn’t. He also knows that Tony won’t look into her because he’s--

He’s busy. 

Just that. 

(Not dying, his brain whispers insidiously. Not planning a trip six feet or below.) 

Rhodey does not blow off Tony when they have a fight in the house, when Tony wants everyone to leave and get out and tries to get Rhodey to leave by saying he’s a sidekick. 

“You idiot,” Rhodey scowls. “If I’m a sidekick, what does that make you? The very minor character?” 

“What? No, I’m Iron Man--” 

“Yeah, but still. I think Pepper or someone else would be the main character. Quit being an idiot and help me clean up the glass you shot at, idiot.” 

Tony doesn’t like knowing that Rhodey knows. He also doesn’t like Pepper screams about an omelet and how “It wasn’t even that good Tony! How did you mess up eggs! You didn’t even get any seasoning!” 

Rhodey laughs. Helps Tony discover that a.) SHIELD is a bunch of assholes collectively getting a salary, and b.) Howard still had tricks up his sleeve. 

But tricks are tricks. 

You get a solution? Well, that’s even better. 

Tony smells like metal and coconuts, and Rhodey whoops with joy. 

Tony kisses him on the lips, and it’s amazing and he definitely wants more of that, and-- 

“Okay we gotta go take down an evil genius,” Tony says, grinning. “Come on sugar-plum.” 

War Machine and Iron Man work like a dream together, and they’re panting and tired but smiling at the end of all of this. 

“Sour patch, we need a vacation,” Tony says. “We need to just. Lay somewhere.” 

“Agreed, honey.” 

So after all of these years, they become an item. A couple. People who love each other and don’t get too mad when someone else eats all of the butternut squash soup (Rhodey). 

And Tony will tell anyone who listens how in love he fell, so hard, and Rhodey will smile and agree. 

But he’s pretty sure that he’s the one who fell first. 

#rhodeytony #ironhusbands #anyways rhodey is in LOVE and he LOVES it #lovelyirony writes #tony stark #iron man #war machine #rhodey #james rhodes #rhodes family #anyways yes i love them

[myelocin]

REQ #6, #7, & #8 | Stories in Passing

synopsis:

Req #6 | @hoshino-a​ : The stranger always standing across your platform never failed to leave you both amused and irritated all at once. What you didn’t expect, was to actually come to stand face to face with him.

Req #7 | @souheii​ : Doritos, capri suns, and midnight talks with a stranger at a half empty grocery store parking lot wasn’t a common occurrence, but you suppose not all bad either.

Req #8 | Linette : Your spontaneous trip to the nearby 7/11 didn’t usually end up with conversations with a monochrome-haired man with golden eyes shared under a starless sky with strawberry ice cream, but perhaps there’s a first for everything. 

 characters: Miya Atsumu, Iwaizumi Hajime, Bokuto Koutarou

#6 Miya Atsumu | For Lena | Platform 2, Ginza Line, Tokyo

He wasn’t much of a stranger to you at this point considering how you’ve filed him in your brain as the “fake blonde bitch who thinks train schedules are a competition,” for the past week or so.

Jumping into a new schedule meant that you had to take an earlier train than usual to the busier side of town to clock in at work on time.

What’s interesting on your new schedule, though, is the guy you always see standing at the platform opposite of yours across the train tracks. To be fair, he was pretty good looking, and you would be a liar if you didn’t admit that. Side swept bleach blonde hair, a dark undercut, prominent brows and a fairly acceptable fashion sense. Save for the checkered fanny pack he always wears though; you figure he could do better than that.

Then again, to each their own.

He was there every day and stopped right across you every time so you figured the two of you must be running on a similar schedule. That wasn’t much of a problem considering the fact that you’ve known yourself to be rather observant and by the third day already could pick out a few familiar faces in the morning crowd.

What was the problem though, was the stranger who always managed to stand across you on the opposite platform made it seem like his lifelong mission was to smirk at you every time his train arrived first. The glance with the telltale smirk was quick, and could have been just chalked up to a trick of the mind—but the way his eyes glinted as the corner of his lips lifted into a smirk when you looked straight at him on the days your train approached first confirmed your suspicions.

So just like that, the bleach blonde stranger had quickly become a fixture in your morning routine. Your eyes met at least twice every day, but you still didn’t know his name nor he—yours.

What you hadn’t expected though, was stepping into the train at 3:02 PM headed to Shibuya and seeing him, checkered fanny pack and all, staring straight at you as he took one of the fully occupied seats in front of the only available area for you to stand in.

And like a normal person with a sane mind which you consider yourself to have: you ignored him completely.

From your peripheral vision you could practically see him scoff before he looks straight at you and says, “For the record I arrived first.”

You nod, not sure whether you want to answer or not, but the grandmother stares at him in a way that even has you feeling bad, that he motions to stand up, quickly saying, “Take my seat.”

You shake your head and tell him, you’re getting off soon anyway, so he stays.

He looks at you, then at the grandmother shrugging when she shakes her head towards him (really, you still feel bad), and tells you, “If I didn’t know any better I’d take that this is just a ploy so I feel bad and take ya’ out for coffee or somethin’ after this.”

You roll your eyes, “Only if we get off at the same station.”

He smirks, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes again because it looks just as pompous as the one from earlier this morning.

“That’s a deal,” he says again and for the rest of the train ride you ignore him, quickly taking a seat on the opposite side when one opened up. The seemingly unending rush hour of Tokyo filled the train back up in less than a minute, so you suppose the stranger would think he just lost you in the crowd.

And because fate decided it wasn’t on your side that day, of course, the second you make it three steps out of the train, you see him from the exit next to yours waving at you.

“Well,” he says, “Wouldja’ look at that. If I didn’t know any better maybe fate’s on my side today after all.”

He’s still laughing when he shoves his hands in his pockets and fully faces you.

“Miya Atsumu,” he says, introducing himself with a smile that feels familiar despite it being the first time you’re seeing it.

“Lena,” you reply. His eyes crinkle again in a way that has you thinking maybe fate’s trying to tell you something today after all.

 -

#7 Iwaizumi Hajime | For souheii | lmao pls just think random grocery store but at like, 04:07 AM

A half empty grocery store parking lot on the other side of town at four in the morning wasn’t exactly your best idea up to date, but you guess the quiet it provides could be a redeeming factor.

The past night had simply been another one of those nights where the sandman decided to completely skip over your house, so in result, sleep could not find you even as you toss and turned for a solid hour or so. And if there was one good thing about midnight (or really, early early morning at this point) runs to the grocery store it was the feeling of aimlessly walking around the aisles and feeling so separated from the world.

The thing is, aisle three with the Doritos and Capri-suns looked the exact same whether you were there at 4AM or 4PM. The same redundant music plays over the speakers as the same monotonous beep of the cash register molds together as background music. But something about walking around there at 4AM just felt other worldly.

So you suppose that’s the reason why you hopped in your car after deciding you were far from sleep and the reason why you’re spending dusk leaned against the trunk of your car munching on doritos and sipping from your juice packet.

But the gods must have decided it was high time for some company because eventually the owner of the car parked across yours came back from what looked like his midnight run and did the same.

On a regular day (and under daylight) you would have jumped back in your car and drove away because one: you’re wearing a faded tshirt that looked 3 sizes too big for you, and two: your hair at this point hasn’t made acquaintance with a hairbrush for the past 10 hours maybe.

But, it may have been his stance that had you relaxing immediately, the fact that this dude was fucking hot, his superior choice of Doritos flavor (it being cool ranch), or your belief about grocery stores under moonlight being otherworldly that had you staying put in your spot.

Though really, it was just him settling in a position similar to yours and popping his bag of chips open while telling you, “Don’t worry about me, just do your thing,” that made you throw a thumbs up in his direction and stay.

Apparently his name was Iwaizumi Hajime and that his roommate had come home drunk so he decided the best option was to leave the apartment all together.

“Cheers,” you call out, raising your juice pouch in offering.

“Cheers,” he replies, doing the same with his Gatorade bottle and laughing with you.

You spend the next few hours making comments about nothing in particular, sharing the mutual silence as the two of you tear through the packaging of the snacks in your respective plastic bags.

In moments like these, you don’t really bother to learn much about the stranger sharing the hours before daylight with you, but curiosity makes you ask tidbits about him anyway as he does to you.

And as the eastern side of the sky begins to light up with touches of the burning sun’s flames, you come to know that Iwaizumi Hajime is a gemini who used to play volleyball in high school, that he loved catching cicadas as much as he loved to release them, and noticed that his mouth pushed up to a pout whenever you said something that teased him.

He, on the other hand learned that you love the rain as much as you love the sound of wind chimes, and that you crack your knuckles when you’re nervous—which he teases at that has you pouting.

Though only the skies witness how the both of you spent the minutes watching the sunrise by stealing glances at each other whenever the both of you thought either was looking.

When you dust off dorito crumbs from your shirt and unlock your car door Hajime calls out your name telling you he’ll shoot you a text soon.

This time you smile. Because despite the break of the day and the rising chatter of people driving in and out of the world waking back up—Hajime’s smile on your mind still makes the moment feel otherworldly.  

 -

#8 Bokuto Koutarou: Linette | 7/11, 01:14 AM

The best conversations happen with strangers you meet because of the uncertainty of how long they’ll stay.

Then again, people are generally like that. But in this case, strangers that you meet at 1 in the morning while you stop by a 7/11 for ice cream means that it feels a little safer to be more unfiltered.

Much like he was, you suppose. It took no more than three steps in the store, and a nod of acknowledgement to the part timer who welcomed you for him to bellow a loud “hello” in your direction. And much like you expected, your greeting in return had been more on the awkward side.

“Late night munchies?” he said as he stood up, brushed off the crumbs on his shirt and followed you to the freezers in the back.

You nodded, and tried to limit your focus to which kind of ice cream you even wanted before jolting in surprise as he stood right next to you—perhaps a little too close and pointing at the strawberry flavored tub on the left side. He only laughed at your response before picking up a tub and gesturing to the counter.

“My treat,” he said, and up until now, you still have absolutely no clue what possessed you to agree. But you did, so now ten minutes later, you’re sitting across Bokuto Koutarou, the stranger from the 7/11 right outside your apartment unit sharing an ice cream tub he bought for the two of you to share.

Conversation with him was, for one, interesting.

He didn’t exactly pry but when you did talk you could practically see the focus glint, striking and evident in whirlpools of gold. You didn’t know much about him either—most of the things he said was information you really could have done just the same without but he put it out there anyway.

“Any reason why you’re out here at 1 in the morning buying strangers tubs of icecream and eating them outside a 7/11?” you ask and he shakes his head, laughing. You think about how fitting relaxed laughter is for him.

“Not really; just felt like eating shit tonight,” is his reply and you nod your head, not really curious enough for further explanation.

“You usually say yes when strangers offer to buy you ice cream at 1 in the morning?” he asks, returning your question with the same tone as you face him pointing your spoon in his direction in your defense.

“Not really,” you say, laughing, “just felt like trusting strangers tonight.”

“That’s deep,” he comments, nodding before scooping up more ice cream and popping the smooth in his mouth.

“Midnight conversations tend to run deep,” you reply, then scoop up and do the same. You smile, strawberry ice cream always reminded you of nostalgia.

The man across you laughs exhales, slumping further down his seat as he looks up at the sky. There’s not much stars in the city, but the way he smiles when he closes his eyes would make you think like he’s looking at the Milky Way itself swirling the secrets of the universe into the sky.

The silence you shared with him felt profound, almost.

“I don’t think you’d have the same conversation if you met me here at 1PM, though,” he tells you.

“You morph into a different person or something?” you laugh, responding.

“Something like that,” Bokuto says again and continues to face up; he’s still smiling, and you take note of that too.

“Different person or different thoughts?” you ask, and he nods at you, face scrunching up in thought at your question. He looks a little silly, you think.

“Different person, same thoughts, but usually with a filter,” he answers after some time, laughing.

“Then should I be glad I’m talking to you now?” you ask.

Bokuto sits back up before leaning on the table with his elbows, his eyes locked on you. The spark in his eyes look somewhat like the reflection of the streetlights behind you with how bright they are, but the flicker tells you it’s just a trick of the eye. Though, regardless of that, you find yourself entranced as you stare back at him.

“That depends on you,” is his answer to the question, so you counter with, “Does that mean I’ll get to meet this other person?”

Bokuto laughs and you notice how it echoes in the quiet street. “I guess so.”

When he turns to face the starless sky again and smile as if he’s watching the universe unfold, you do the same.

Strangers really do have stories to tell; in this case, you find yourself suddenly intrigued to learn all about his.

 -

#haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #hq x reader #bokuto koutarou x reader #bokuto koutarou #bokuto fluff #bokuto x reader #bokuto koutarou scenarios #bokuto scenarios #miya atsumu #miya atsumu x reader #miya atsumu fluff #atsumu x reader #atsumu scenarios #miya atsumu scenarios #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi hajime fluff #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi #iwaizumi fluff #atsumu #bokuto #iwaizumi scenarios #iwaizumi hajime scenarios #stories in passing

[tessatechaitea]

The Invisibles #4

Is this how idiotic social beliefs are purged from assholes?

I don't understand the people who want less politics in comic books. We need more politics in comic books! Except what I don't really understand is using the word "politics" when they're actually angry about discussing social ills. Except I really do understand what they mean when they refer to social issues as politics. Certain people refer to being compassionate and kind and inclusive as "political correctness" because they can't imagine being compassionate or kind or inclusive until the cost of not being those things adversely affects them. So they think people only believe in being that way if it confers some kind of selfish advantage, usually in the political arena. And thus actually being a compassionate human being becomes political to them. Also, can we just stop arguing about how comic books used to be when they've always been about making the world a better place and there have always been comic book fans who found that political because they were terrible people? A terrible person reading a comic book where Batman stops some bank robbers can feel good about the story because they know they'll never rob a bank. But when Batman deals with some social ill, the terrible reader might see themselves reflected back at them in the villain of the story. Suddenly, to them, the story has become political. How dare the comic book company choose the other side which is just a political difference and not a basic human decency issue! And they never think, "Maybe, like Batman, I should also try to do better?" No, instead they send a letter to the publisher demanding that the publisher change the stories they tell so that they don't have to take a long, hard look at themselves. Ideas are political. If you think a story about Batman breaking the bones of The Joker's henchmen because The Joker is robbing banks isn't political, you're kidding yourself. You're just not looking deeply enough into the story and the systemic problems in Gotham that creates a demand for henchmen that are desperate enough to work for a maniac who could murder them at any moment while also having to worry about a man in a bat suit nearly killing them for working for the maniac. How is a billionaire going out at night dressed as a flying rodent to beat up poor and mentally ill people not political? How is any Superman story not political when it's about an immigrant to America embracing his new country and trying to make it a better place for everybody? If you actually think you want comic books to not be political, you're telling on yourself. You're just saying that you're the type of person who doesn't want to read criticism's about our world that might make you feel guilty about your selfish attitude. The Invisibles is an old comic book which came out 26 years ago and it couldn't be more political. But then it's dealing with magic and the irreality of reality, so if you're dumb enough, you can probably pretend it's not political at all.

This issue begins with a Books of Magic trading card.

At the end of the last issue, Tom told Dane they were going to climb to the top of the skyscraper with the magic pyramid on top and leap off. It was going to teach Dane about the finality of life and not really kill him. But when this issue begins, they seem to have put that off for the moment. Instead, they've stolen a sports car, driven it out to some sleepy little UK pasture, and begun a game of catch with a Frisbee. Tom starts rambling on about how his time is up and he's going to die because he's a warrior sorcerer and his time is up and he can see the shape of his life and it's super small and everything sucks but it also doesn't, you know? Dane barely listens to him because he's now full of life again and he just wants to do the things people who feel alive do. I don't know what those things are because I just sit in barely lit rooms reading terrible books from my youth and finding reasons not to begin writing my second module for my role playing game, Places & Predators. I should take a break and call my mother! I'm back! I also ate and watched an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation and an episode of Community and lay on the couch with Gravy.

Gravy's head is behind mine and not inside mine because we don't own a teleportation device and, if we did, we wouldn't be so careless with it.

The next day, Tom and Dane head off to jump off of a skyscraper. Tom will presumably be doing it for real because he's tired and he's done his part and he thinks Dylan Thomas is a fucking asshole who can't just let a person die in peace when they're ready to go. I mean, lay off me, Dylan! I'm fucking dying here! This isn't about you and your fear of death (which, ironically, is probably why you drink so much and why you'll be dead at 39). Dane smokes some blue mold which will probably allow him to fly or bounce or something. Sometimes I think about the angst of youth and then I think about how optimistic and embracing Quiet Riot was of the youth and youth culture and it just makes me fucking smile, man. That wasn't supposed to be a non sequitur. That was just a reaction I had to Tom telling some bystanders witnessing Dane's drug induced realizations, "It's drugs. Dope. They're all on it nowadays. With their computer games and violent videos and swear words. We had The Bible and a nice apple when I was his age." Tom is being smarmy and telling the adults what they want to hear. And, especially with reference to their video games, it made me think of Quiet Riot who didn't care what adults wanted to hear. They knew what the kids needed to hear. And it wasn't just "Being a teenager sucks and we get it and the world is garbage!" Their message was often "We see how things are different for you and how you cope differently than we did and we fucking get it man and we approve and you're going to be all right. Your doing good, kids." Most of you probably only know "Metal Health" and "Cum on Feel the Noize" so you're thinking, "What the fuck are you talking about?" But some of you also know "Winners Take All" and "The Wild and the Young" so you fucking know what I'm talking about.

This reminds me of The Last Temptation of Christ.

The problem with books that revolve around Jesus is that I truly can't tell if they're making a statement about secular life or if they're truly reinforcing the opinion that Jesus was the son of God and the only truth you need to know about Jesus is that he was resurrected. Was Jesus preaching about being good on Earth because it was the salvation of your soul and your way into heaven? Or was Jesus literally trying to tell everybody to give unto Caesar what is Caesar's because this shit don't matter, bro. Fuck Earth and Earthly conceits. Should every action taken on Earth be concerned with your spiritual self and your relationship with God and getting into heaven? Because I'm tempted to see The Last Temptation of Christ as a parable for secular life. Are we all Christ in the desert being tempted by the devil away from our true calling? But if all the regular trappings of society are illusions and lures away from whatever it is we should do, what is there really? What would a person do if they didn't have a career? Or a spouse? Or a mortgage? Or a child? Not falling for those temptations isn't enough, right? So what's the next step? Sacrificing your own desires for the common good of the world? But what common good would that be if people aren't supposed to fall for any material temptations?! What are we striving for if we aren't striving for everybody to equally fall for the same societal illusions?! What is the magic asking of us?! To just burn it all down to prove that we weren't fooled by any of it?! How is waking up outside of The Matrix better than living within it?! Show me my fucking cards before you ask me to jump off the top of a skyscraper is what I'm saying! You know what? I think that's what Jesus asked God the night of the Last Supper! Jumping off of a skyscraper to get Dane to pierce the illusion of reality and see what lies beneath is way better than giving him a red or blue pill. The Matrix pussed out, even though it had this scene from The Invisibles as a perfect example of what it was doing. Dane survives the leap and finds himself in a four color comic sci-fi pulp novel cover. The world has changed and he's not sure what to do. So he goes to the address of the Invisible College that Tom gave him. He's finally ready to report for duty. Dane meets the other Invisibles: King Mob, Ragged Robin, Boy, and Lord Fanny (which would have gone right over my head in 1994 and possibly only made it into the comic book because the editors didn't know quite enough British slang). As far as drag names go, Lord Fanny is proper good. Meanwhile, some shadowy guy answers a phone call from Orlando (probably exactly the Orlando you're thinking of because why not? He/she was good enough for The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen). They discuss raiding an Invisibles safe house they've discovered. But the non-Orlando guy on the phone can't direct it because he's got British politics to do.

Back in 1994, I also wouldn't have understood what this door with the 10 on it was telling me about the person on the phone.

Dane decides to stick with The Invisibles as Jack Frost and they make their getaway before Orlando and the Prime Minister's Myrmidons break into the safe house. All they find is a chalkboard that reads, "Big Brother is watching you. Learn to become invisible," and a pink grenade with the word "smile" printed on it in ransom letter letters. And that's the end of the first story arc. The Invisibles #4 Rating: A. I'm seriously getting angry at my 23 year old self for not continuing to purchase this series. It's hard to remember exactly where I was at that time in my life that caused me to stop reading it. I'm sure I liked it. Maybe I just had trouble remembering it from month to month. Or maybe I just missed Issue #6 at the comic book store (I never had anything put on hold. I'd just show up on Wednesdays (unless it was Thursday back then? I can't even remember that!) and pick up my books (I didn't even ask the store to hold a copy of the Death of Superman for me. The clerk, Jeff, just happened to hold one for me anyway. He probably thought I was super cool or something)) and so just forgot about the series. Maybe I'll pick up the collected edition whenever my local comic book store reopens. Although if I show my face in there, they may try to get me to buy comics that were placed in my pull box after I cancelled my pull box. See, they weren't getting comics from Diamond for over a month and I just decided it was as good a time as any to stop buying new comics. So I cancelled my pull box. But what if, in their mind, I was still on the hook to buy all the comics for the weeks that Diamond didn't ship?! That would be fucked up and, knowing me, I'd instantly cave and say, "Oh yeah! Okay! Sorry! Sorry! I'll purchase all of this shit I don't want anymore just so we don't continue this awkward conversation!"

#The Invisibles #DC Comics #DC #Vertigo #Grant Morrison #Steve Yeowell

[c-ptsdrecovery]

Fanny Price and Emotional Abuse

colubrina replied to your post “Emotional Neglect in Austen”

I would actually love to read your analysis of Fanny Price if you ever had time and inclination to write it out.

Oh my goodness, where do I start?

Fanny Price is abused and neglected from start to finish of that novel. She suffers direct emotional/verbal abuse from Mrs. Norris, bullying from Maria and Julia, excessive criticism from those three AND Sir Thomas, and emotional neglect from Lady Bertram and Tom. She also suffers PHYSICAL abuse and neglect, mostly from Mrs. Norris, who does not allow her to have any heat in her room in the winter and forces her to work beyond her strength in the summer even though Mrs. Norris KNOWS she’s chronically ill (and it’s no wonder, considering the amount of emotional strain Fanny’s under, that she should be chronically ill!). 

The only person in that house who even notices that she’s utterly miserable from the trauma of being torn from her family is Edmund: he’s the only one who treats her like a person and is kind to her. It’s no WONDER she falls in love with him: he’s the only person in the entire family who doesn’t treat her like SHIT. But while Edmund recognizes Mrs. Norris’ behavior toward Fanny to be beyond the pale, he generally does not seem to notice that his more immediate family also treats her horribly. Lady Bertram treats Fanny as a servant, putting her own (Lady Bertram’s) needs and wants before Fanny’s (”You don’t want to go to the party, do you? You want to stay home with me because I get bored if you don’t!”). Sir Thomas is generally so critical and cold that when he greets Fanny kindly on his return from Antigua she is “nearly overcome” by his kindness. Even Edmund himself begins to both emotionally and physically neglect Fanny the moment he gets interested in Mary--leaving Fanny for ages on the bench alone, keeping her waiting too long for her horse when she needs to exercise, etc. Fanny only gets noticed and included as a member of the family when Maria and Julia are both gone and the family is apparently bored without them--the same reason Henry decides to flirt with her.

The result is that Fanny has almost no self-esteem. She has completely internalized Mrs. Norris’s lesson that “Wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last.” At one point she parrots the lessons she’s been taught by the treatment of the entire family:

“I can never be important to any one.” “What is to prevent you?” “Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness.” “As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either.”

She believes she’s foolish and awkward because the family harped on her lack of education and “refinement” when she first came to them, and they have drilled into her, not only that she is not important to them, but that she can never BE important to ANYONE. Classic result of emotional neglect. And Fanny NEVER actually gets over it, throughout the entire book.

She’s nearly silent through much of the book too, mostly because she’s too terrorized to talk. As someone who was similarly brainwashed by emotionally abusive parents, I can tell you that taking any attention under some circumstances feels excruciating and guilt-inducing, because you’ve been conditioned so hard to believe that “being the center of attention” is somehow morally WRONG. Fanny suffers from precisely that false belief (note her distress when she is required, by the social rules of the day, to start the dancing at her own ball--Sir Thomas basically has to SCOLD her into it!).

That said, it’s amazing to note the one way in which she DOES have self-esteem: she believes in her own moral judgment. This is the only basis on which she is able to think and act independently of others. When Edmund treats her badly, she gets seriously annoyed. When she notices Henry’s bad behavior toward Maria, she is indignant. She secretly judges Mary Crawford the whole way through the book. I would attribute this trust in her moral judgment to be the result of the kind of long walks and talks she has with Edmund in the text and has had her entire life: he has molded her to think of things with the same moral judgment he uses and to think herself capable of being superior to others in that moral judgment. Of course, since she has absorbed the moral tone of Edmund, learned from Sir Thomas, she is pretty judgy sometimes, since Sir Thomas clearly feels himself and his moral code to be superior rather than conservative. She certainly feels superior to her birth family (with some reason, honestly lol), because in this one thing she has been taught that the family she grew up in was superior to others. She has imbibed this superiority and acts it out when at Plymouth.

Let me give you an example of Sir Thomas’s conservative moral code. You might think, from reading Mansfield Park, that Jane Austen disapproved of private theatricals, and that they were generally considered too naughty by the Better Sort of Person. It turns out that this isn’t true at all. Not only were private theatricals popular, but Jane Austen enjoyed performing in them and even WROTE some plays for that purpose! One of them involves a gentleman sitting on a lady’s lap!! It turns out that the strait-laced tone of the novel is not so much a reflection of the author’s standards of conduct, but of Sir Thomas’s, imbibed by Edmund and then Fanny. Edmund, Fanny, and Sir Thomas’s dislike of private theatricals would have been a bit PRUDISH at the time, not the obvious standard of Good Breeding.

Another thing the novel has imbibed from Sir Thomas is its insularity. The modern criticism of Mansfield Park talks a lot about the family’s isolation. Now, I don’t hold with the criticism that makes a big deal out of Fanny marrying her cousin and implying that that’s incestuous, because in the 19th century, cousin marriage was not only acceptable but a norm. Marrying your cousin was often considered desirable because it strengthened family ties and kept money in the family. BUT, I completely agree with the observation that the Mansfield Park family seems to shun the outside world. 

One thing that I don’t know if the criticism has commented on is that dysfunctional families often function like cults. Offspring of dysfunctional families tend either to rebel and “run away” (Maria elopes, Julia elopes, Tom rebels) or to fail to establish autonomy (Edmund takes a living in Sir Thomas’s gift and later the house right down the road; Fanny never gets out of the family at all because she marries Edmund). Dysfunctional families also teach their members not to trust those outside the family circle. They don’t tend to socially interact much with others. I can say from personal experience that my parents have VERY few friends that they see outside of work or church, and only one couple that they invite to the house regularly. As a child, I rarely got to have birthday parties with my friends: my parents would instead invite my extended family. I was taught not to establish strong bonds outside the family, to trust the family only to be generous or to help and support me. I find it difficult to establish strong ties of friendship outside the family or to trust those friends to support me the way my family might.

The Bertrams are the same way. Maria and Julia go to local balls, but that happens offscreen, and we never meet any of their acquaintances except Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth (who become family). The family disapproves strongly of Tom’s having such an active social life away from home, and disapproves when he brings home a friend (Mr. Yates) to stay. Even when Sir Thomas holds a ball for Fanny in the house itself, we never actually meet any of the guests except the ones we already know! And the “last straw” that causes Edmund to agree to join the theatricals is when they start asking people “outside their circle” of Mansfield and the parsonage to participate. He also deplores that they might invite in an audience of these personae non gratae. Frankly, it’s amazing that the Bertrams were willing to open their family circle enough to let in, not only the Grants, but the Crawfords.

I’ve gone on for quite awhile, but I’ll close like this. When I first read Mansfield Park, I hated it and I hated Fanny, because she had no backbone and cried all the time. Then I watched the 2007 adaptation with Billie Piper, and realized that although Fanny was so shy and retiring and weepy, she had an iron backbone in that nobody could make her do what she thought was wrong. Mansfield became one of my favorite Austen novels.

At the moment, I don’t feel like I can reread MP. I’m dealing so much with my own history of emotional abuse and neglect that MP strikes just waaaay too close to home (also the reason I can’t rewatch Tangled right now). I’m not sure how much I like MP anymore, frankly. Austen did a fantastic job of accurately portraying a victim of emotional abuse. And she gave Fanny what she wanted at the end, which was Edmund. But I can’t help wondering if Austen herself wished she could have ended the novel differently. She comes right out and says, authoritatively, that if Edmund had married Mary, and Crawford hadn’t run off with Maria, that Fanny would have married Crawford and been happy. She could have escaped from her abusive family, with someone who really sees their abuse: “And they will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.” If Crawford and Maria hadn’t run off together, the ending of Mansfield Park might have been entirely different--and it MIGHT have been better.   

#jane austen #mansfield park #literature #abuse #emotonal abuse

[babza29]

Flying With Losers

Hello, amazing people! This is the second bit of this series, I created this moodboard and therefore it’s mine :) I’m not sure how far this will go but I have a third one that I’m going to write soon :) Hope you enjoy. 

Summary:  The Losers Club have reunited once again after 27 years. The gang sees two guys with a baby, Eddie doesn’t want a nanny and Richie has his eye on a golden gong.

Warnings: Bad Language

When Eddie and Richie got the call from Mike that he was getting the losers club to come back for a reunion in their hometown, Derry Maine, they both were very hesitant. Eddie, with the persistent memory of his mother’s constant worry that the world was a bad place and that he needed to stay inside with his mummy where she would keep him safe. But the drugs that he carried in his fanny pack turned out to be placebos which finally gave him the courage to stand up to his mum and be free from her torment.

Richie had one memory in particular; the arcade. The arcade was where he was brutally outed in front of so many children and with a small town, a small community, word had travelled fast of that one word that was a sin to be. Bowers words had struck him hard and he would never want to experience that again. But he was glad to have such an understanding and loving group of friends. Of family. Of losers. And now they are about to show their world to the people that they both trust the most.

Eddie parks their car in front of the Chinese restaurant, Jade Of The Orient, gets out and waits for Richie to put on the baby carrier to his chest, unstrap Birdie from her car seat and lay her carefully in the carrier where she gracefully sleeps against Richie.

As they walk towards the restaurant Richie hears Eddie groan beside him, “Shit, I left the baby bag in the car, you go on ahead I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything you would do.”

“Oh cmon Eddie, we’ll be just fine.”

“I sure as hell hope so, whatever you do, don’t wake up Birdie.”

“I would never. Now go fetch her bag fine sir, she will need it once she wakes from her slumber” Richie explains in his slightly better British accent from when they were kids.

“I hate you.”

“Love you too”

Richie walks towards the entrance, with his hands on the back of the carrier where his sleeping Birdie’s back is and asks the lady at the counter for the reservation ‘Hanlon’. She directs him to the room at the back where the setting seems to be a nice private area; as no one has caught his tall lanky figure yet, the golden gong catches his eye and without thinking he picks up the stick, hits the gong and says, “This meeting of the losers club has officially begu- oh no no no sweetheart Papa didn’t mean it, shit, don’t cry, don’t cry, shhh it’s okay.” Everyone at the table snaps their necks to the disruption at the entrance showing a shaggy black-haired man with big framed glasses trying to quiet down an upset baby.

Beverly Marsh, the only girl in the losers club was about to say something when they all heard a scream coming from the other room, “Richie I swear to fuck if you have woken up Birdie! – give her here you piece of shit” In comes a more familiar man that takes the baby from who they now figured out to be Richie Tozier, the comedian of the group.

“Why didn’t we get a nanny, then this would have been much easier.”

“You know what happened on the news last week, how that nanny almost killed those kids and thankfully got arrested. No fuckin way.”

“What did I say about watching the news.”

During their little argument, the losers all put together Richie and Eddie’s relationship at different moments. Beverly caught on straight away that they were together and grinned as wide as Cheshire the cat. Stan also knew but whilst rolling his eyes, his face had a ‘meh, they’ve been together since we were kids’ look. Mike and Ben were a little slow but gradually had smirks on their faces, listening to Richie and Eddie’s arguing never seemed to change from when they were children. Bill, on the other hand, had a dumbfounded ‘What?’ Look on his face causing Stan to chuckle beside him.

The surprise wares down and Beverly jumps up and goes straight to Eddie who was soothing Birdie, trying to stop her now quiet whimpers by swaying her side to side. “Let me hold the baby, oh my gosh, when did you adopt her, what’s her name, how old is she?”

“Forget that, my concern is how old she’s gonna live for with Richie as her dad,” Stan says immediately after Beverly,

“Fuck you, man.” Replies Richie with a joking tone but mixed with a hint of seriousness. Their daughters’ safety and life mean everything to Eddie and Richie.

“Well losers, this is baby Birdie, funny name but it fits her perfectly. We’ve had her for a month and a half now, she is three months old and she is our world.” Says Eddie, carefully handing her to Beverly.

As everyone sits down and orders their food, Stan moves next to Beverly who begrudgingly hands her to him after a while but leans over his shoulder with Ben, keeping her full attention on Birdie. Stan, who secretly loves her even more because of the fact that her name resembles his love for birds, is holding her with the most adoring look on his face which catches the attention of Richie,

“Stan the man, how come you like her but not me bro, I made her.”

“No you didn’t, she’s adopted you idiot.”

“Didn’t you hear what I was doing to your mum 12 months ago?”

“Hey, that’s not funny!”

“Nah I’m just kidding. It was Eddie’s mum, so that means that she’s basically blood-related to the both of us.” The last comment of Richie and Stan’s banter causes Bill to choke on his drink making him cough and breathe for air and for Eddie to hit Richie on his shoulder in annoyance.

As their food arrives, the conversation and bonds that they shared when they were kids immediately fall back into place. Many laughs and jokes are all that can be heard from everywhere in the restaurant, turning a few heads at attention by how loud they are.

Sitting in silence, Mike has a slightly frustrated look on his face as a baby was getting all the attention when he was the one who put this event together and no one has had the decency to give him any conversation. This does eventually catch everyone’s attention and to make matters worse, they kept on pushing Mike to hold Birdie. With a little more persuasion Birdie ends up sitting on his lap which is stiff and still as he has no idea what he is doing, but he is immediately softened when he feels a small pressure clinging onto his finger. A tiny hand that doesn’t even reach the entire way around.

Eddie looks in pure wonderment as Mike brings her to his face and kisses both of her cheeks, then lays her gently on to his chest. He has never been happier in his life with his annoying yet caring husband and beautiful baby girl.

As Birdie is constantly shared around to each and every one of the losers, it starts to stir her up from the frequent movement. Not seeing her Daddy and Papa, the only familiar faces she knows, starts to unsettle her and that’s when the tears once again start flowing. Instantly in dad mode, Eddie gets up from his chair whilst Richie starts ‘attempting’ to make a bottle, hands it off to Eddie who in turn directs the nipple of the bottle to Birdie who starts eating with such eagerness you would think that she hadn’t had a meal for months.

“So is that all she eats?” Says Bill with curiousness. And before Eddie can respond, Richie replies,

“Yea, only milk at the moment, Eddie here is still breastfeeding, but we don’t do it in public and that’s why we have bottles.”

For some reason, with belief, the losers turn to Eddie in question. With a massive glare towards Richie that says, ‘you’ll hear about this when we get home’ he faces the rest of them, “What the hell are you looking at!?”

Everyone bursts into laughter, with Eddie joining in at the end. But with one tiny yet adorable yawn, that is Richie and Eddie’s queue to leave. Everyone gets up and hugs one after the other – giving Birdie a small kiss on her forehead too – and as they drive home with their hands clasped together over the gearstick, they both would have never guessed that 27 years later they would be married and have the most loving group of friends with a baby that would end up becoming their world.

Their baby Birdie.

#Reddie #Parent Reddie #Richie Tozier #Eddie Kaspbrak #Beverly Marsh #Ben Hanscom #Mike Hanlon #Bill Denbrough #Stanley Uris #No Pennywise au #Baby Tozier/Kaspbrak

[thequeerhistorian]

Mary Wollstonecraft, Mother of the Mary’s

For centuries, women have fought for the right to a proper education. History shows that noble or upper-class women were the only women allowed to get any sort of learning, and as history has continued, there has been a greater fight to give all girls the right to a proper education. One of the most notable women in this fight is Mary Wollstonecraft, an English woman who would fight tooth-and-nail for the education of girls and would not hold back against her male opponents. But to understand Mary’s importance to history, as with anyone, we must take a look at her life to see what led to her trailblazing fight for women’s education.

Mary Wollstonecraft was born in Primrose Street, London, on April 27th, 1759. She was the 2nd of 7 children, and the eldest daughter, to her father, Edward, and her mother, Elizabeth Dickson, an Irish Protestant, though Mary’s life was anything but a primrose path. Edward Wollstonecraft was an abusive bully, who seemed to leave a trail of failed work behind him. His father had been a successful silk merchant from Spitalfields, and left Mary’s father at least 10,000 pounds, which he squandered in failed farming ventures. His failures took him to six different places in Britain, until 1780, when her mother died. This would not be the last time Mary is faced with death, or failed marriages.

After losing her mother, Mary decided to make her way in the world. She lived with her lifelong friend, Fanny, and in 1783, Mary helped her sister escape an abusive marriage, and kept her safe, while the divorce was finalized. The three girls, together, decided to build a school in Newington Green, which failed financially. After this, Fanny left for Lisbon, got married and became pregnant. She begged Mary to come visit and Mary arrived in Lisbon to Fanny in premature labor. Sadly, Mary would have to watch her dear friend, and Fanny’s newborn baby, die on the same night, in 1785. All of this would likely culminate in Mary’s less than happy view of marriage and motherhood. Mary was surrounded by women who died for motherhood and were repeatedly failed by men who were supposed to love and support them. Mary also supposedly mimicked Fanny’s death in one of her later novels. (Mary, A Fiction)

Mary would end up leaving the school to go to Ireland, which is when the young writer found herself employed as a governess in Co. Cork, Ireland, in 1786 for Lord and Lady Kingsborough. Mary taught their three daughters and was just beginning to make way as a writer. She had already submitted her first book, Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, a series of essays, to Joseph Johnson. Her essays would be published in 1787. During her stay, Mary would begin working on her book, Mary, A Fiction (1788).

Upon her return to London, Mary began working for Joseph Johnson again, creating more writings and growing her literary prowess. She wrote her next book, Original Stories from Real Life; with Conversations, calculated to Regulate the Affections, and Form the Mind to Truth and Goodness (1788) and The Female Reader; Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose and Verse; Selected from the Best Writers and Disposed under Proper Heads; for the Improvement of Young Women (1789) created under the nom de plume, Mr. Cresswick, teacher of Elocution.

I find it telling that even as a woman with growing knowledge of literature and the education of young girls, she felt the best way to get people to truly listen to her was to take the appearance of a man. After all, despite Wollstonecraft’s lack of a formal education, she had gained quite a vast knowledge on these subjects. Considering the school she created, her work as a governess, her work with Johnson that led to her getting to rub shoulders with men like William Blake and Godwin, as well as having direct access to review and translate the works of men like Jacques Necker, Reverend C.G. Salzmann, and Madame de Cambon from Dutch, French, and German. Even with what little she had, she was a woman of great intelligence and knowledge in these fields.

Mary was also not afraid to go toe-to-toe with writers of the day. She was a staunch supporter of the French Revolution for their egalitarian views (though this support would pointedly end during the Reign of Terror) and wrote a scathing response to Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France which would become her book, A Vindication of the Rights of Men (1790). Two years later, Mary wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Woman which included an equally scathing response to Jean-Jacque Rousseau’s book on education, Emile, which included the story of a boy and his learning through experiences in nature, while in the same book, discussing a little girl who could not learn or understand like Emile could because she was a girl. Wollstonecraft likens him to a barbarian and calls his beliefs “madness”. She believed there was no reason a girl shouldn’t be taught as a boy would.

Perhaps Wollstonecraft’s growing attack against her counterparts shows her determination to stand up for girls and their education. After all, Mary would have particularly strong feelings, considering she had to watch her brother get a formal education while she and her siblings were pushed aside. After all, she worked just as hard, if not harder, than these men, so why shouldn’t she? I also find it interesting that while she worked with many of the more respected of her time, Mary’s name tends to be the one we know better over many of these men.

The same year Mary published her most well-known book, she met Captain Gilbert Imlay, whom she began an affair with and had a daughter. She named the girl Fanny after her childhood best friend. Mary would make a note to continue writing as she raised her daughter, but this romance would not last long. Imlay would turn on Mary and abandon her and their daughter, leaving Mary distraught and alone. She attempted suicide, but was luckily saved, and she would soon fall in love with her old friend, William Godwin. The two married and Mary gave birth to their daughter, also named Mary, but this would not be such a happy time. Despite Mary wanting a midwife who would be more experienced, Mary was put under the care of a doctor who mishandled a minor surgery that would lead to Mary’s death, eleven days after the birth of her daughter, who would go on to be as great a writer as her mother. Mary would die at the age of 38, never truly knowing the daughter who would follow in her mother’s path of literary skill.

Mary wrote eight books in total, one being published after her death. Mary was a woman of wit and fire, who as she learned, would become less and less apologetic about her opinions for women’s right to equal education, and how they should be taught to be independent and how a lack of education would lead to future generations not receiving the schooling they needed. She was a woman who would inspire future generations to fight for women’s equality and education. I studied Mary’s works through a class, “Women in Modern Europe” my sophomore year and after all we learned, I rather wish we got to see Mary Shelley grow up with her mother. I can only imagine the incredible things those two women would have accomplished together.

Links to Sources:

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/84

https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/wollstonecraft/#Bio

https://www.biography.com/scholar/mary-wollstonecraft

https://www.bbc.co.uk/teach/mary-wollstonecraft-britains-first-feminist/zkpk382

#womenempowerment #mary wollstonecraft #girlpower #girl positivity #women in writing #education #girlseducation #women in history

[thegreatwhiteferret]

Waiting For Tonight

Summary: Eddie always thought that he would wait until he was married to have sex, but after a year and a half of dating Richie with all of his teasing and innuendos, Eddie snaps. He can’t wait any longer and he challenges Richie to do his absolute worst on him and wreck his virgin body.

Pairing: Reddie

Rating: EXPLICIT

A/N: This was an unbelievably amazing PowerBottom!Eddie request from @theriodiaries , I am so sorry that this took me so long to finish, I wanted to make it the best that I could for you and definitely overthought some thing, but I really hope that you like it! (Especially since I have two more requests to write for you now!!! Super excited!) ❤️❤️❤️  Also, this is a shameless self promo but... @reddieforlove ...for your consideration for the next Reddie Fanfic Friday.

NSFW Under the Cut...

Eddie wasn’t sure what it was. It wasn’t out of some moral or religious obligation. It wasn’t his mother, and her horrific stories about all of the diseases that could be spread. It wasn’t because he was disgusted by the thought of it. Scared? Maybe a little, but not enough to keep him from doing it. It was none of that, he wasn’t sure what it was, but nonetheless he had made himself a promise a long time ago that he would wait until he was married to have sex.

The problem with this of course, was that Eddie had made this decision when he was seven years old. When he didn’t understand what it meant. When he hadn’t been able to come to terms with the fact that he found little girls icky, and didn’t think that his feelings would ever change about that. He had made the decision before he realized that he was hopelessly in love with Richie Tozier.

Being in love with Richie presented its own set of unique...challenges, but Eddie wouldn’t take him any other way. He loved him more than he ever imagined was possible.

One of Richie’s many strengths was how understanding he was. Eddie had told Richie way before they had even started dating, way back the summer they turned thirteen, that he wanted to wait to have sex. Richie had balked at first, shocked that anyone in the world wouldn’t be itching to tickle their pickle, but stopped immediately when he saw how serious Eddie was. If this was something that Eddie was adamant about, he would never pressure him.

That didn’t mean that he was going to stop with all of the innuendos and obnoxious jokes, that’s just who Richie was as a human being, but he did curb them a bit when it was just the two of them.

------

They started dating at the end of their sophomore year of high school. It was long overdue. Eddie had known deep down that he was in love with Richie for at least four years. It took him a while to process it, and even longer to actually admit to himself, and then to his friends, that he was gay. Richie had known that he was bisexual since he had snuck into the backroom of the video rental store when he was a kid and saw the glory that was Deep Throat. That film was his bisexual awakening, which he would tell anyone who would listen, and then they would yell at him for being too young and disgusting. He had also known even before that movie, that he loved Eddie more than anything and would stop at nothing to protect him. He was his Eddie Spaghetti, and anyone who even came close to hurting him was going to die.

Eddie had been the one to make the first move. Richie had been casually seeing this kid from a few towns over that was in a band. Richie had fallen hard for the guy, he wore all black and smudged eyeliner around his eyes, he had metal studs up and down his ears and had a tongue piercing. Eddie was repulsed. Mainly because he was the one that Richie would run to with all of the details from his dates. Would sneak into his window at night, with fresh hickeys sucked into his neck and tell Eddie about how amazing, Freddie was.

It lasted three months and then things changed. Freddie decided that Richie was too simple for him, he had called him one dimensional. He didn’t like the neon colors and crazy prints. Couldn’t stand how Richie ran his mouth, or the fact that he seemed to talk about one of his friends more than any of the others. He told Richie that he wasn’t experienced enough for him, and it broke Richie’s heart. They had had sex for the first time just a few days earlier, and Richie couldn’t help but feel the rejection ten times over because of it.

Richie tried to pass off his pain with humour, like he always did, but Eddie saw it. Saw the pain in his eyes. Richie stopped being so bright. Stopped being so loud, he withdrew inside his head, and it broke Eddie’s heart too. Richie stopped climbing through his window at night to have their talks as well, and that’s where Eddie drew the line.

One night, Eddie snuck out of his own window and rode his bike the few blocks over to Richie’s house and climbed the old tree outside of his bedroom window. Richie bolted from his bed when he heard a knock on the window, sliding his glasses onto his face before grabbing the baseball bat that he kept next to his bed and preparing to swing.

“Whoever the fuck you are I will fucking kill you!” He aimed towards the window as a small figure slid the glass open and all but fell inside. Richie raised the bat preparing to slam it down onto the person’s head, when he heard familiar wheezing. “...Eds? Eddie? What the fuck? You almost gave me a heart attack! I could have fucking killed you! Jesus Christ, you’re choking. Where is your inhaler?” RIchie slid on his knees so that he was next to Eddie, searching for his fanny pack and his inhaler. Eddie looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Hi.” He choked out, and Richie shook his head in belief at his friend, crashing through his window in the middle of the night, just to say that. He helped Eddie to stand and moved him over to sit on his bed.

“Well shit, hi, Eds.” Richie said, joining him on the bed. He tried to straighten out his sheets a bit so it didn’t look like a complete mess, he knew that he didn’t have to impress Eddie, he had seen his room like this a million times, but he still felt the urge. Eddie didn’t look like he was going to start talking anytime soon, so Richie did what he did best and filled the silent void. “So, not that it’s not a nice surprise and all, but what are you doing here, Eddie?”

“I uh...I had to come and tell you something.” Eddie forced out, and Richie looked at him confused, urging him to continue. “I uhm...wow. In my head this went better.” He looked pensive, like he was fighting a battle within himself, and it was unnerving for Richie.

“Look, Spaghetti Man. Why don’t we just...you can either sleep here or I can walk you home. We can talk about whatever you wanted to in the morning…” Richie was cut off by Eddie pressing his lips to his. It was quick, before Richie could even registered what had happened, Eddie was pulling away. “Wait, no come back.” Richie murmured and pulled him in for another kiss. This one more drawn out, but he was still careful to not spook Eddie too much. They pulled away breathless after a few moments, looking wide eyed at each other.

“Richie, will you be my boyfriend?” Eddie asked, and Richie could have sworn that it was the most adorable thing that he had heard in his entire life. His heart swelled in his chest and he just nodded. Eddie looked relieved.

“Took you long enough.” Richie sassed and Eddie just rolled his eyes and pulled him in for another kiss.

------

Eddie held true to his pledge of abstinence, even after Richie became his official boyfriend. Always careful to stop things before they went too far. They had been dating for a little over a year and a half now, and they had experimented with some heavy petting and a few handjobs, but nothing more. Richie respected Eddie’s boundaries.

Richie being Richie however continued to make crass jokes all of the time. The other Losers didn’t know about Eddie’s vow for purity, they never pried, but Richie supplied plenty of innuendos anyway, maintaining his position in the group as the Trashmouth.

“Ow, shit this soup is hot.” “Yeah, you know what else is hot? My boyfriend’s ass.” “Beep beep, Richie!”

“What does the sign on an out-of-business brothel say?” “J-jesus Christ, Richie. I’m t-trying to do my h-homework.” “BEAT IT, WE’RE CLOSED! Hahahaha.” “Get o-out of my h-house. Beep f-fucking beep.”

“What’s the difference between a tire and 365 used condoms?” “I will kill you.” “One’s a Goodyear, the other’s a great year. Stanley, let me tell you man, I’m having a great year.” “Let go of me, Bill! I just want to strangle him a little!”

“I’ll have a Dr. Pepper please.” “Oh, that reminds me of a joke. Hey, Mike?” “No.” “Why does Dr. Pepper come in a bottle?” “Richard, why can’t you just let me enjoy my soda in peace, I don’t…” “Because his wife died.” “I...I’m sorry guys, I have to go, I can’t…” “Are you fucking happy? You broke, Mike!”

“Bevvvvvvvvvvy Baby, I have a hot lesbian joke for you.” “You also apparently have a death wish.” “What do you call a lesbian dinosaur?” “Don’t…” “A lick-a-lot-of-puss!” “Eddie, I hope you don’t need your boyfriend’s dick for anything, I’m about to castrate him and shove it down his fucking throat.”

Eddie was a semi-patient person, he had taken to boxing as a way to control his anger, but Richie’s constant teasing and joking had brought him to a new level. He wanted nothing more than to shut his boyfriend up. Truth be told, he was tired of waiting. Tired of listening to Stan describe how Bill had made him fall apart on his tongue and fingers. Tired of how sweet and soft Ben was in his descriptions about Beverly. Mike kept pretty tight lipped about his trysts, but Eddie had seen many a girl swoon over just the sight of him walking down the street.

Eddie was tired of waiting. Tired of his boyfriend’s jokes about how tired he was of dating his left hand. He wanted some action, and he was going to get it.

------

It was the night of the Homecoming football game, their senior year. Eddie had decided that this was the perfect opportunity. They would all be cheering Mike on and then heading back to the farm for a bit of a party, win or lose, there would be an excuse to consume copious amounts of alcohol.

Mike’s farm also had the benefit of lots of places where people could sneak away. Eddie’s favorite had always been the loft in the old supply barn. He would always find himself sitting in the loft, legs hung over the side of the hatch, watching the sun come up. Richie joined him most of the time, cigarette poking out from his lips. They’d just talk and be themselves. Eddie couldn’t think of a more perfect place for them to be together for the first time.

“Hey Mike, would it be okay if I decorate the loft in the old barn a bit for the night of Homecoming?” Eddie asked as he and Mike were moving through the lunch line a week or so before.

“Why do you want to decorate it? The party is going to be in the big house, my grandparents are going to stay in the cottage that night so that we can have free reign.” Mike responded, smiling at the lunch lady to get an extra slice of pizza, damn that charming bastard.

“I uhh, well I uhh…” Eddie stuttered out, and Mike froze turning to look at Eddie with the most deadpan face Eddie had ever seen him make. He blushed under the gaze. Mike rolled his eyes.

“You want to use my barn to create a sex dungeon?” Mike deadpanned, and Eddie choked on his own spit, Mike patted his back a few times, helping Eddie regulate his breathing.

“Can you not use the words ‘sex dungeon’ ever again???” Eddie whisper yelled, trying to not draw any additional attention to them. “I just need a safe space where I can feel comfortable…” Mike stopped walking and turned to Eddie again, realization dawning on his face.

“Eddie, are you a virgin? Are you planning your first time with Richie?” Mike asked carefully, not wanting to embarrass the other boy. Eddie frowned slightly and nodded. “Well, okay. Are you sure you want the loft? We have the guest bedroom, it might be more comfortable?”

“No. The loft is perfect, it’s kind of our...place.” Eddie explained, they had reached their table now. The others would be arriving soon. “Look, Mike. I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell the others, or say anything to Richie. It’s kind of a surprise for him.”

“Sure thing, Eddie. My lips are sealed, and the barn is all yours.” Mike said, taking a bite of his pizza and nodding to Bill and Stan who had just walked into the cafeteria. Eddie nodded in thanks, and dropped the subject.

Mike had helped Eddie drag a spare mattress up to the loft, and then kept his mouth shut without judgement when Eddie sprayed the entire thing with disinfectant. Eddie had strung up so old christmas lights too, giving the space a nice romantic glow. He put new silky sheets on the mattress and even laid out some condoms and lube, which Mike had graciously provided for him. Everything was set up and perfect. Now Eddie just had to make it through the rest of the game and convince Richie to leave the afterparty to go to the barn with him.

The game was almost over, there was only five minutes left in the fourth quarter and most of the crowd were on their feet. Eddie and Stan sat huddled together under a blanket while the other Losers stood around them.

“Go team! Throw the ball, yay sports!” Richie called out from where he was standing next to Eddie, a goofy grin on his face. He turned around and plucked Bev’s cigarette out of her hand to take a drag. Bev slapped him across the head, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

“What’s happening, Bill?” She asked with a bored tone in her voice. It made sense to ask him. Bill was the only one besides Mike that could follow almost any sport. Eddie and Ben ran track, and Bill and Stan played baseball, but none of them were really all that focused on all sports. Bill sighed.

“It’s t-third down and t-twenty, we are o-only up by one t-touchdown, if they m-manage to keep p-possession of the b-ball and score, t-then we are t-tied...and we d-don’t want that.” Bill explained, squeezing Stan’s hand that was peeking out of the blanket for him to hold.

The ball snapped, and the opposing quarterback threw the ball, but as it soared through the air Mike sprinted, faster than any of them had ever seen before, he jumped, grabbing the ball out of the air and took off running in the opposite direction. He was so fast and everyone was so stunned that he had intercepted the pass, that it was like time had stood still. Eddie and Stan jumped up, joining everyone else in the stands who were jumping around and screaming. Mike ran straight into the endzone as the clock ticked down, scoring the winning touchdown.

The crowd went ecstatic. Everyone was screaming and hugging. Richie lifted Eddie up and spun him around. They sure as hell didn’t give a shit about sports, but their boy just won the game, and that they did give a shit about.

------

Mike’s house was packed with people, everyone talking and drinking. It seemed like most of the school was there. A game of beer pong was set up in the kitchen. Bill as the reigning champion of beer pong, had decided to challenge Richie to a duel. Eddie and Stan were their partners, but they were really just there to look pretty. At least that’s what Bev had said while she watched them and sipped on her own beer.

“We need to get you too some pom poms.” Bev said, and Ben nudged her in warning. “What, they are definitely the pretty little trophy wives. Ben, don’t even try to fight me on this.”

“Benjamin, control your lady.” Richie teased, as he sunk another ball in one of Bill’s cups. “Drink up Denbrough, don’t make Stan do it for you. Be a man!” He finished dramatically, and Eddie looked over at Stan with wide eyes.

“First the fuck, Richard. My man is plenty of man. Secondly, Beverly...I am a damn fine trophy wife, don’t be jealous.” Stan said waving his hands around and sticking his tongue out at Bev. He had enjoyed a few too many shots of Malibu, and was feeling himself.

“O-okay, Babe. Point m-made. Let’s go g-get some water and f-food.” Bill said, trying to diffuse the situation a little bit, Stan snapped his head towards Bill, and Eddie had to try and hold back his laughter. Richie did not have the same courtesy.

“William Denbrough. Did you just imply that I have had too much to drink? That you know my body and limitations more than I do?” Bill stayed very quiet while Stan was talking at him. No sudden movements or words. “Mhmmm. That’s what I thought. I will decide when I have had enough…” He spun around towards Bev, but he froze and grabbed onto Bill as his stomach lurched and the room began spinning. “Okay, I’ve had enough.” Bill nodded towards the others and helped Stan make his way to the bathroom.

“Hey.” Eddie said, pulling his boyfriend’s attention to him. “Come take a walk with me?” He asked, fluttering his eyelashes a little and biting his lip. Richie gulped at the sight, alcohol and general lust for Eddie.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He said and allowed Eddie to pull him through the crowd and out the back door. They started walking down the familiar path, but Richie figured he needed to break the silence anyway. “So, where exactly are you dragging me off to, Spaghetti Man?”

“You know where.” Eddie said with a playful roll of his eyes. They reached the barn a few minutes later, and Eddie pulled open the barn door. Richie threw himself on top of the stack of bales of hay while Eddie closed it behind him. He giggled when he saw Richie struggling to sprawl out on the rough material. “Hey, I’ve got a better idea.” He headed over to the small set of stairs that led to the loft and he climbed up them easily.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on…” Richie froze at the top of the stairs when he looked at what was in front of him. “Eddie....what is all of this?” He looked from all of the twinkling lights hanging from beams, to the hatch that allowed the moonlight to shine in, and finally to the bed. Covered with tons of blankets and soft looking sheets.

“Richie, I want you to make love to me.” Eddie said, taking his hand and pulling him towards the bed. Richie shook his head, and then stopped moving.

“Eddie. No. You want to wait until you’re married. You’ve been saying that since we were kids. I don’t want...I don’t want you to just change your mind because you think that I need sex to be fulfilled. I love you, just the way you are, we don’t have to…”

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” Eddie asked, face dropping as he looked at Richie. “Is that what this is? You don’t find me attractive and you don’t want to sleep with me?” Eddie said, tears filling his eyes. Richie’s heart dropped.

“No. Eddie, no, listen to me. That’s not it. You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I just don’t want…” Richie promised, trying to explain his feelings, but failing miserably. “I don’t want you to regret it.” Something changed in Eddie, like a switch was being flipped.

“There you fucking go again, thinking you know everything.” Eddie shook his head, he was pissed off now, no one got to decide for him. “You like challenges, huh, Rich? I know you do. You can’t resist them. I challenge you to do your very worst, Tozier. To wreck my virgin body. Think you can handle that, or should I go back to the party and find someone else to do it for me?” Richie’s jaw dropped open in shock, he had never heard Eddie talk like that before.

“Challenge accepted.” Richie murmered, moving to press a bruising kiss to Eddie’s lips, pulling him with him towards the bed. He pulled his own jacket off and toed out of his shoes, then let himself fall back on the bed, sliping his shirt and jeans off before leaning up on his elbows to watch Eddie. “Going to do a strip tease for me, Eds?” He asked half joking, but there was a sparkle in Eddie’s eye.

Eddie licked his lips as he looked down at Richie. He let his jacket slipp off of his shoulders and drop to the ground. His scarf was next, he shimmied with it a little, dropping down and pulling back up so that his jean clad ass was on display for Richie. He dropped the scarf to the ground and pulled his sweater over his head, tossing it in Richie’s direction. He took his time unbuttoning his shirt, not wanting to destroy it even in the heat of the moment. Richie watched him eagerly as more and more of his toned little body came into view. He turned around again, as he slid his jeans down over his hips and ass, kicking them off and leaving him only in his tiny grey briefs. He wiggled his hips for Richie putting on more of a show for him. He turned around and stepped on the mattress moving over Richie and then dropping down until he was straddling him.

“Holy fuck. That was the hottest thing ever, Baby Boy.” He let out as he ran his hand up and down Eddie’s torso. Eddie ground his ass down on Richie’s dick, moaning when he felt how hard he was already.

“Mmmmmm no. The hottest thing you will ever see is me riding this pretty cock of yours, but there’s some work you need to do first, don’t you think?” Eddie asked sweetly, and Richie almost came right then and there. He nodded and let Eddie move off of him a little to lean over the side of the mattress. He came back with a condom and a bottle of lube. “I think you’re going to need these, but first, there’s something I want to try for you.” Eddie smirked at him and moved down the mattress, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down, letting his erection spring free.

Eddie smirked at Richie one more time before taking his leaking cock in his hand and leaning down to tease the head with his tongue. Richie’s hips thrust up without him even thinking. Eddie used his other arm to push down across Richie’s hips and keep him still. He took just the head of his ock back in his mouth, a little tentatively, and began sucking. Richie threw his head back from the feeling. Eddie decided to push himself a little bit further, he licked a strip up Richie’s entire length first, and then slid his mouth around his dick. He could only take a few inches in at first, but he worked his way down little by little. Richie was moaning and writhing on the bed beneath him, obviously unphased by Eddie’s inexperience.

“God, Baby Boy. That mouth. Ahhhh, Eds, I’m gonna cum.” Richie was moaning more and more, getting close to finding his release. Eddie pulled off, stroking Richie from root to tip a few times, until Richie’s body tightened up and he blew his load all over Eddie’s hand and his own chest. Eddie stroked him through the aftershocks, then looked down at his hand that was covered in Richie’s cum. He thought about it for a minute before looking Richie dead in the eye and lifting his hand to his mouth, and starting to lick it off. “Oh my fucking God, Eddie that’s fucking filthy…” Richie groaned out as he watched his boy.

“Mmmmmmmm. So good.” Eddie moaned, as he leaned down to lick a stripe up Richie’s chest, collecting the rest of his cum on his tongue. He caught Richie’s mouth in a kiss, letting him taste himself. Eddie pulled back, and kept his eyes trained on Richie. “Richie, are you going to open me up so I can take that pretty cock of yours, or do I need to do everything myself?”

“I’ve got you, Baby.” Richie said, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Eddie crawled down the bed a little bit, staying on his hands and knees and popping his ass out for Richie. “Oh, Baby Boy. Those briefs are doing nothing to hide that beautiful ass of yours.” Richie moved behind him, palming one of his cheeks in his hand. Eddie moaned at the feeling, and Richie gave him a little pat, before he pulled the fabric down over his ass, leaving them bunched up on his thighs. He used his thumbs to spread his cheeks apart. “My God, Baby Boy. You’re killing me. Soft and hairless. So pretty.” Eddie mewled at the compliment.

“Come on, Richie. I need more. Give me what I need.” Eddie begged, and Richie leaned in licking all the way from Eddie’s balls up his crack. “Oh fuck!” Eddie had never felt anything like it before. He’d never even played with his own hole, Richie’s tongue was the first stimulation he had ever had down there, and it was enough to make his cock drip precum into his briefs. Richie repeated the action, letting his tongue poke lazily at the ring of muscles. He suckled around his hole, finally breaching the muscles properly with his tongue. Fucking gently into the heat. Eddie moaned at the intrusion, it felt weird, not bad but weird. Richie kept playing with him, gently licking his hole open. He moved his hand around on the bed, trying to find the bottle of lube, he snatched it up quickly when he felt the hard plastic. He gave Eddie’s fluttering hole a light kiss before pulling back completely. “Are you going to fuck those long fingers in me? Come on, Richie. Do it.” Eddie instructed. Richie was taken aback by how vocal Eddie was.

Richie popped the cap of the bottle off and let some of the slick liquid drip down his fingers. He closed the bottle before dropping it back on the bed. Her rubbed the tips of his three lubed up fingers around Eddie’s hole, teasing circles around the muscle until Eddie was groaning and whining from being forced to wait. Richie took pity on him and began to push his first finger in slowly. Eddie choked out a sob at the feeling.

“It’s okay, Eddie. You’re doing so good for me. Taking my finger, just relax baby, so good.” Richie praised as he pushed his finger in the rest of the way. He could feel Eddie relaxing and took the opportunity to slowly begin thrusting his finger in and out, letting Eddie get used to the feeling. It was strange, feeling this full, but Eddie knew that there was so much more to come. Richie waited until Eddie was moving his hips back to meet his thrusts before he added a second finger, careful to keep them still so the stretch was bearable. When Eddie signaled that he was ready to continue Richie began twisting his fingers and scissoring them open, on one of his thrusts he hit something inside Eddie that ripped a scream out of his throat.

“Ugh. Fuck, Daddy, right there.” Eddie moaned, and Richie froze at what Eddie had just called him. It was unbelievably sexy, and Richie was pretty sure that he should be ashamed to admit that. Eddie seemed to realize his slip because Richie was no longer moving. “Your two fingers are in my ass and that’s what trips you up? Keep fucking moving, Daddy. Open my ass for your cock.” Richie choked on his own spit, but began moving again, thrusting in to hit that spot again, before adding another finger.

He made sure that Eddie was good and stretched, not wanting to hurt him when he thrusted in. He had Eddie flip over on his back and pulled his briefs the rest of the way off of his legs. Eddie pulled his legs to his chest, giving Richie space to move between them. Richie tore open the foil packet and slid the sheath down his shaft, he added more lube, making sure everything was nice and slick before moving into position over Eddie. He looked down at the love of his life, trying to make sure that this is what he wanted.

“We can stop right here, Eddie. We can wait. I love you so much, I’d wait forever.” Richie said looking into his eyes. Eddie looked up at him, with a smile on his face, and it touched Richie’s heart.

“I love you too. Now stick your fucking dick in me now. Did I stutter?” Eddie sassed, looking at Richie with determination in his eyes. Richie nodded, knowing that Eddie knew his body better than anyone else. He pressed the tip of his cock against Eddie’s hole, and then slowly pushed in. Eddie’s mouth flew open and he screwed his eyes shut at the feeling, so new. Richie went slow, inch by inch until his hips were resting against Eddie’s ass. Eddie gasped out a breath. “Holy fuck.”

“Are you okay? Is it too much?” Richie asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. Eddie just nodded that he was okay, taking a few deep breaths. He relaxed. “Do you want me to move?” Richie asked and Eddie nodded again. Richie started thrusting in, slowly and gently, barely moving at first. Eddie quickly started to get inpatient, he knew that Richie was holding back.

“Fuck me like you mean it.” He let out, wrapping his legs around Richie’s waist to pull him in tighter. Richie sped up a little bit, pumping in and out in a rhythm, Eddie rocked his hips to meet his thrusts, legs still wrapped around his waist. The discomfort had turned to pleasure and now he wanted more. “Richie! Harder! Fuck me harder, Daddy. Please!” He cried out and Richie tried to move faster to satiate his boy, but Eddie was moaning like a porn star and Richie was a little lost. Eddie raked his nails down Richie’s back, trying to encourage him to go faster, and Richie cried out from the mixture of pain and pleasure. He wasn’t the most experienced, and his only other partner had definitely not been as enthusiastic and receptive as Eddie.

Eddie was done waiting, he rolled them over so that Richie was on his back. Eddie straddled him again and grasped his cock, he held it in place and let himself sink down on it, feeling Richie way deeper than he had before. He started to pound himself down on it hard and fast over and over, rocking his hips until Richie’s cock was brushing against his prostate with every thrust. Eddie braced himself with his hands on Richie’s chest. He kept fucking himself down, his own cock slapping up against his belly from his movements. Richie lay beneath him, trying to thrust up in time with Eddie’s thrusts, watching his boyfriend get himself off by using his cock like a toy.

Richie could feel his stomach getting tight, his body racing towards his climax. Eddie was doing so well for him, his tight hole milking his cock perfectly. Eddie slammed down one more and Richie was cumming in the condom, screaming Eddie’s name as his body started to tingle all over before going numb. Eddie kept bouncing, hitting his prostate, and then wrapped his hand around his own cock, flicking his wrist just how he liked it, and cumming in thick streaks across Richie’s chest. He let himself catch his breath then carefully moved off of Richie before falling onto the mattress next to him. He could already feel how tender his ass was, but it was worth it.

He grabbed a pack of baby wipes that he had left off to the side and wiped himself and Richie down a little bit. He wanted a hot shower, but he wanted to curl up with his love even more. Richie opened his arms and let Eddie snuggle into them, pulling the sheets and blankets up over them. It was quiet for a moment before a thought popped into Richie’s head that he had to voice.

“You were right. Watching you ride my cock, is the hottest thing that I’ve ever seen.” Richie admitted as they lay wrapped up in each other. Eddie giggled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. They fell asleep intertwined, the sounds of the party in the background and the moon shining through the hatch.

#Reddie #Richie X Eddie #Richie Tozier #Eddie Kaspbrak #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #stanley uris #stan uris #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #I won't tag the other ships because they are background #it fanfiction #it fandom #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #Smut #Slash #Power Bottom Eddie #Meg Writes Things

[aion-rsa]

Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous Reveals That Friendship is When Trust Defeats Loneliness

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In Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous, a group of teenagers from very different walks of life learn that they have to depend on one another in order to survive the ordeal of being abandoned on an island full of dinosaurs. As much as the series revolves around escaped dinosaurs, jump scares, and corporate conspiracy, at its core are six lonely teenagers who really just want to have someone to connect to. By the time the season has concluded, those teens have found that they can trust each other with their lives, if not with everything else.

Darius

The series opens with Darius, a video gamer who wins a trip to Camp Cretaceous by successfully completing a game mission. He’s the only one of the Camp Cretaceous campers who truly loves dinosaurs for their own sake, and his only ulterior motive for being at Camp Cretaceous is to fulfill a promise he made to his father: that they would go to Jurassic World together.

But his father is gone. It’s not completely explained until episode 4 “Things Fall Apart”, but even from the first episode there’s the heavy implication that Darius’s father has died. Although his brother and mother both seem supportive, it’s clear that the loss of his father—who shared his passion for dinosaurs—hit him hard. When he arrives at Camp Cretaceous, it’s clear his father is present in his thoughts, and he’s determined not to waste a moment of his opportunity to be on Isla Nublar.

It makes sense that Darius would find like-minded fellow dinosaur lovers at camp, that he’d find a kindred spirit to help mitigate the loneliness he feels in losing the person who understood him best. But instead, he seems to be alone in his passion. He wants the other campers to like him, but that seems almost unattainable in the first few episodes, where he has no real way to connect with these other, not-dino-loving kids. In fact, they label him “Dino Nerd” early on—not in a complimentary way—and Darius is treated like a kid by older, richer, cooler Kenji. When Darius bails Kenji out for breaking the rules, landing them both in deep water, and discovers he’d fallen for a false sob story, he’s justifiably angry, but not angry enough to keep Kenji, who claims insider VIP knowledge of the island and park, for leading him on a second misadventure.

The two don’t like each other until far later (and even then, Kenji is mostly insufferable), but that bond of rule-breaking—and saving each other’s lives in dino encounters—starts forming the friendship and trust they’ll need when things get tough. It ends up being Kenji’s rightly-placed trust in Darius that helps Darius become the group’s leader. But it’s also the memory of Darius’s father, pledging that even when things fall apart, “we pick up the pieces and keep going,” that becomes Darius’s own inspirational speech—and one that the other campers quote back to him when he’s at his own moment of hopelessness. Their faith in him helps him realize that the memories of his father go with him everywhere, and when he tells them about his father’s death toward the end of the season, it’s less awkward for him than it is for the others, because they’ve helped him come to terms with it through their belief in him.

The Cattle Drive

The isolation of both Brooklynn and Yasmina is the focus of the third episode in the series: “The Cattle Drive,” as well as Sammy’s complete lack of understanding that people might prefer not to be surrounded by others. Sammy, daughter of ranchers, who has several siblings and extended family living around her, can’t fathom that a person might be a loner. When Kenji says, “You know how sometimes people just wanna be left alone?” She bursts into laughter, responding, “Kenji, you’re hilarious.” But Yasmina has no interest in being drawn out of her shell. As an athlete, she practices alone. Her hobbies are private. She has no interest in inviting the criticism of others, so she shuts everyone out.

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Brooklynn, on the other hand, is the focus of thousands of viewers on her own social media channel. She’s constantly taking footage to share with her followers—and she’s constantly under the scrutiny of strangers, desperately craving their approval. “There’s a lot of pressure when your whole life is about being popular,” she confesses to Darius. She can’t fathom that anyone else in the group might just really want to be liked, even if it’s not on the same scale. And while she admits later on that she’s not great at “IRL friendships,” it doesn’t initially occur to her that maybe what she needs is for real friendships, rather than the adoration of strangers, to make her feel validated.

Sammy’s speech to a sinoceratops, showcasing her own bravery as she tries to befriend the huge dinosaur, hits Yasmina right where it counts: “It’s hard to trust strangers,” Sammy says, promising, “I’ll trust you if you trust me.” Suddenly, Yasmina realizes that giving someone her trust is exactly what she needs, and the two become fast friends.

The Betrayal

Ultimately, it’s because that trust is betrayed that Yasmina is so crushed when Sammy reveals she’s been spying for Mantah Corp. Sammy is Yasmina’s first real friend. She defends Sammy when Brooklynn airs her suspicions that Sammy stole her phone. So when Sammy admits to her own lies—only after she’s been caught red handed—it totally undermines every ounce of faith she’d developed in others.

Sammy’s first loyalty is to her family, whom she clearly loves deeply—enough that she’s willing to risk everything to save them. But she’s also the type of character who easily gives her love and friendship to others. In the middle of a group of strangers at camp, she’s the one determined to make connections and friendships—the one unwilling to accept loneliness as a default. She’s open with herself, and one would think it would make her the worst kind of spy. (The fact that the kids do catch her supports that theory.) 

When she tries to make up with Yaz, it’s with that same selfless sharing of herself. After Yasmina risks herself to save Darius and Sammy, gratitude and admiration push Sammy to try to mend the rift between them. “That was amazing,” she says. “You’re amazing.” (The speech may encourage viewers to suspect Sammy’s feelings for Yasmina are also romantic, especially with the precedents set in Dreamworks series like She-Ra and the Princesses of Power and Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts. If there is a romantic tension underlying their friendship, these scenes pack an even harder punch.) But forgiveness doesn’t come easily; it takes more than just an apology and gratitude to bring Sammy and Yaz back together.

Last Day of Camp

It’s been hinted at that rich-kid Kenji is mostly left to his own devices when he’s at home. He’s full of put-on confidence, but when he talks about going home, the first thing he says he’ll do is go down to the bowling alley in their mansion, where the staff always lets him win. But as he describes it, he loses all enthusiasm. “Life of a VIP,” he says mournfully, looking at Darius. Later, he describes that he and his father have almost never shared an experience together, countering that sadness with a reminder that he’s wealthy, as though that should make up for his time alone.

Ben, still mocked by the rest of the group for his fanny packs and non-sugar, non-caffeine lifestyle, doesn’t argue with the teasing of the others, because he believes they’re right. He feels like he’s the one holding everyone back. The best friend he’s made by this episode is Bumpy, a baby ankylosaurus, that he was unwilling to abandon the way the adults abandoned the campers. 

When the other campers ask why he came to Camp Cretaceous, he acknowledges it’s because his mother wanted him to face his fears—but instead, he’s only had more things to be afraid of. And he’s tired of it, to the point that he realizes in order to be one of the team, he has to take a risk, too. That moment of risk and triumph is when he becomes a real member of the team, finally. It’s also why his loss in the next episode hits the other campers so hard.

To Friendship

As the campers believe they’ve finally made it out of Jurassic World alive, taking the monorail down to the South Ferry Docks, Sammy offers a toast to “the six of us being best friends for life,” the other campers don’t share her optimism. Brooklynn feels like friendships take more than a few days to form; Yasmina insists that they were only thrown together, and that their lack of anything in common will make it impossible to maintain any semblance of friendship after camp. 

But the crestfallen faces of the group make it clear that they don’t want that to be true. They want to believe that they’re friends. As Sammy protests, they’ve been through too much together to not be friends. But Ben reminds them the odds of their ever seeing each other again are small, and they sit in silence, stewing over that, each of them sitting alone in their own seat on the monorail.

Just one episode later, as the first season concludes—and they realize that they won’t be saying goodbye to each other until rescue comes—Darius reminds them that until help arrives, “we’ve got each other.” The nicknames that at the beginning of the season felt like teasing have become their proud monikers. They’ve learned that their trust is much better placed in each other than in the adults running the park. The friendships that they protested just an episode before have formed solidly, and the five remaining campers no longer separate themselves, sitting alone, mourning a lost opportunity. They interweave their arms, or lean on each other’s shoulders, acknowledging that they’re better together.

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And that wherever they go from here, Sammy’s right. They’ve become friends, and maybe even something deeper: they’ve become a team.

The post Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous Reveals That Friendship is When Trust Defeats Loneliness appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[janeaustentextposts]

What is it about Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth that make them your favorites? ❤️

Anne’s quiet strength, honestly. She is not so closed-off as Elinor Dashwood, but is rather constrained by the people she is surrounded by, and helpless to get away from them. Where she finds true friends, she eagerly becomes warm and friendly, and blossoms under positive attention. She does not have Fanny Price’s fearful timidity and over-grown sense of gratitude to oblige her to be subservient to others...rather she helps because she finds it easier to do so, and finds purpose in being useful, even if she knows she is neglected by those she helps. She knows/believes her isolation to be her own fault, and so she accepts her lot, but never truly compromises her beliefs again. (Refusing Charles Musgrove even if he could have given her a comfortable life, company, a family of her own to focus on, and better appreciation than she receives at Kellynch Hall from her father and sisters.) Being older, wiser, and sadder, she knows who she is and what she wants, but holds back from pursuing it by her own sense of remaining dignity and the belief that Wentworth wants nothing more to do with her, as she is well-aware of how much she hurt him in the past, and has no desire to hurt him any further, or pain herself with the indignity of throwing herself at him at all--especially if she believes a rejection to be inevitable.As to Frederick, he is an IDIOT who does not deserve a second chance with Anne Elliot because he behaves atrociously to her and others, but as he is aware of just how big a douche he’s been by the end of the book and suffered terrible emotional distress due to it, I shall safely proceed with my praise of his virtues. 1) He is warm and kind, and strives to be thoughtful even if perhaps it’s not warranted. (Taking time to speak with the mournful Mrs. Musgrove about her dead son, even if said son was a Dick in every possible sense, because it’s somebody’s dead son, and as a Captain in war-time he’s seen enough men die and had to send the worst possible news to their loves ones, so he’s going to patiently sit and listen to this woman talk about a guy he probably loathed because it’s not about Dick, it’s about his mother and her broken mother’s heart.) 2) He is clever as shit. (Taking valuable ships to get that much prize-money in a shitty sloop like the Asp must have taken some luck, but also some baller strategies and intense leadership skills.) 3) He has fantastic manners, but is not so elegant that he’s stuffy and fake like the people Anne knows. (He recognizes and likes people for their individual merits, not who their father might be or what connections they may have.) 4) He’s the only Austen hero to be a self-made, working man. Edmund and Edward are clergymen, yes, but naval officers began training at age twelve for their careers, and also it’s difficult to compare a country parish living to active naval service in war or peace-time, when there is still plenty to do and dangers at sea. (We know some clergymen did not even fulfill their duties for preaching or other tasks, instead hiring a curate to undertake all the work for a pittance salary while they just collect their income and take it easy. Not that I’m saying Edmund and Edward do this, but the fact that it was a possibility and common enough for Austen to poke fun at it in her writing--her own father having been a clergyman, we must presume she knew of many such men--makes it hard to feel Edmund and Edward are being pushed to put everything on the line in the way Frederick would be.) 5) Kind of tying into that last point, he is brave as hell. Of course war is hell and modern foreign policy and the military industrial complex being a nightmare makes me something of a pacifist at heart, but I can’t retroactively un-do Napoleon’s shit, so here we are. If we gotta have war-heroes, at least we have Frederick Wentworth being all noble and studly about it.

So Anne would be drawn out into better circles of friends, with more easy and relaxed company among people who, like her, deserve to be admired for their characters and actions, rather than bloodlines or wealth, and in these circumstances, she would bloom like the beautifullest fuckin flower in the whole world, she would be unstoppable once she’s appreciated and able to unwind and let go and be her truest self. And FREDERICK. He lands his booty in hot water with the Musgrove girls because he is rather AWARE of his virtues and being rich and handsome and having the glory-aura of a hero and lets his pride, scorn for Anne because of his broken heart, and arrogance lead him into empty flirtations which he really ought to have been more sensible about. Secure in Anne’s affections, she would keep him just humble enough, once he knows that Anne’s admiration is the only admiration that really matters, and he has always had it.

#Ask Me Anything Austen-Adjacent #AMAAA #Persuasion #Jane Austen #Anne Elliot #Frederick Wentworth #herewegoagainniall

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I would love a story about scandalized older jamie overhearing claire giving sex advice to the younger generation. Or maybe just a story with scandalized Jamie because those of are some of the funniest moments in the books.

To summarize the first part of Coke Bottles & Romance Novels—which was written a million years ago—Brianna, Roger, & Co. have returned to the 18th century with some 20th century gifts. Among them, is a romance novel for Claire, from Joe, which she intends to read to a scandalized Jamie. 

(Many, MANY thank yous to @dingbatland for providing me with the wonderfully hilarious romance novel copy!)

Coke Bottles & Romance Novels, Part 2/2

My husband was a cultured man—a learned man, for all that, having received his education in universities, on battlefields, in the peaks of the Scottish Highlands and backcountry America. At 58, the iron cast of his world had been set, the lines of truth or falsehood drawn by his experiences—as concrete as a stone in his hands.

Ships were “evil vessels in alliance wi’ Satan.” Drunken men, while generally disagreeable, could be, “Easy money, aye?” for their generosity with information. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and if one could lend a helping hand, then it was one’s duty to do so.

Sex, too, had its own particular shape in his mind, though he (thank God) no longer took his cues from animals.

But of course, the world did not revolve around the beliefs of Jamie Fraser, however solid he might find them. As it turned out, ships were essential to the trade market, and drunken men were often liars. The sky was certainly blue and the grass certainly green, but I rather thought a distinction should be made between “helping” and “meddling.”

And sex—well. There was no defining that.

As if to prove this final point, Sacred Pleasure’s protagonists were performing acrobatics. Their boneless limbs had effortlessly folded and twisted, then disappeared altogether (“Wasn’t her leg just around his torso?”).

Jamie was vibrating beside me, questioning everything from the author’s diction (“Conquered her lips?”) to the logistical implications of sex in a closet.

“Sassenach,” he said, “you ken well how it is in a ship cabin! Ye canna expect me to believe that—”

“Hush!” I retorted, swatting away his protestations. “You can’t just interrupt a woman’s heaving bosom.”

I cleared my throat, and read on.

“Consume me, Rodney. Here. Now.”

“Aye, if he’s a snake, maybe,” Jamie grumbled, and I rolled my eyes.

“Perhaps Rodney and Harriet are quite flexible. And double-jointed, and—”

“Former members of the traveling circus?”

“Precisely.” I replied. “Now. Where were we?”

“Harriet’s consumption, Sassenach.”

“Ah. Yes.”

Harriet took a deep breath and pulled his surgical trousers down. She had never been so bold with a man, and it thrilled her.

Rodney recaptured her lips as she took his silky steel rod in her hand.

God, he was big!

He grasped her love jugs, and her nipples exploded with delight.

“Nay, it doesna say that!” Jamie cried, moving forward to snatch the book from my hands. “Yer making it up!”

Rather absorbed in the story myself, I evaded his swipe and reread the paragraph, pointing at the evidence with a poorly concealed smirked.

“I most certainly am not! It says it right here: ‘He grasped her love jugs, and her nipples exploded with delight.’”

Still disinclined to believe me, Jamie pried the book from my gasp, eyes moving quickly along the lines of text. At last, and with a grunt of contempt, it was confirmed that Harriet’s breasts were, indeed, of a particularly volatile sort. With a loud exhale through his teeth, Jamie took over the reading.

“You drive me mad, Harriet!” Rodney groaned, his quivering member pulsing in her hand.  

He bucked his hips against her, and she let him go, eager to feel that length in her wet depths.

“Oh Rodney!” she screamed as he drove into her clunge, cleaving her. Her body opened to his love dart like a soft pink flower.

“Whoa-ho!” I snorted. “I wonder, which is better: a ‘quivering member’ or a ‘love dart’?”

“I’m partial to ‘clunge’ myself, Sassenach,” Jamie replied, though I thought his expression much more serious than Harriet’s ‘clunge’ deserved. Using his thumb as a place-marker, he studied the cover, scratching at his stubbled chin. “Is this really what ye read? Is this how lassies in yer time learn about—”

“I read the books for entertainment, Jamie. After all, you didn’t get your sexual expertise from Fanny Hill, did you?” I said, brow raised and hand crawling towards his leg. One finger, two fingers tapping against his thigh in silent suggestion. “That just comes with practice.”

“Aye, practice, aye,” he said, only half-listening.

To be fair, the author of Sacred Pleasure was rather…inventive with her descriptions of the human anatomy and sexual intercourse. It had more than earned its rightful place in Joe’s pantheon of romance novels, and I wondered if it was pilfered from the hospital’s collection or his own.

Brows knitted, Jamie reopened the book and turned the page.

“Hey!” I said. “Don’t read ahead.”

“I’m no’ reading ahead, Sassenach.” Jamie leaned back, rubbing his index fingers in slow circles against his temples. “I’m trying to imagine it. D’ye think it’s even possible to make a woman’s nipples explode?”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Jamie regarded me sideways, a grin beginning to stretch across his face.

“And d’ye wish I had the will for that, Sassenach?”

“Not that particularly, no. Though if you do, I’m sure I could muster some gratitude for the effort. Not sure my nipples could though. Having been blown to bits and all.”

Jamie looked at the far wall, tilted his head. I found his thoughtful silence somewhat disconcerting (and my nipples did too, to be honest), but decided not to dwell on the images probably flashing through my husband’s mind. I brought the book closer to my nose and continued to read.

“Harriet! Harriet, my one true passion!” Rodney called out, gasping as his body convulsed with love.

He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, and then pulled away. “I must leave now. I have a surgery.”

“Well, I hope he washes his hands,” I snorted.

“Aye, dinna want her exploded nipples to cause an—” Jamie paused, searching for one of my words, “infection.”

Harriet’s shock was cut off with a hot, heavy kiss. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Is it so different, then, where ye come from?” Jamie asked me then, voice reflective and distant.

I left Harriet and Rodney to their post-coital tension, only to find my husband’s intent stare.

“Why, yes…” I began, slowly, hesitantly. Quite frazzled by the look in Jamie’s eyes. “The fundamentals are the same, of course. We’re all anatomically identical, whether we’re from here or there. Of course, some are more, err, well-endowed than others…” I paused, dropping my eyes to let him know he was, in fact, one of the blessed. “But we’ve all got the same parts in the same places. Unless 18 century men have sprouted an extra organ in my absence.”

“If you’d kept at yer tonics and potions after the Rising, Sassenach, I’ve no doubt you’d have given someone an extra ball, at least.”

“If it were that easy, I should think I’d have every male tenant knocking at my door.”

All at once, a fact of memory struck me. This happened occasionally, as I recalled certain events and places of my past—natch, my future—that would have no meaning for those in my present century. I laughed to myself, and Jamie moved closer.

“Something funny?”

“Nothing,” I said, still stifling a giggle. “It’s only, just—where I come from, there are means of…male enhancement. For those who aren’t as endowed as the others.”

Jamie’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“An aphrodisiac ye mean?”

“No, not quite. Aphrodisiacs enhance sensation. I mean…the physical size of your, err…”

Despite the myriad of terms at my fingertips, sexual eloquence seemed to be failing me. “The penis. But the instrument I’m referring to is called—well, you can’t laugh, Jamie.”

“A man’s cock is never a laughing matter, Sassenach. Verra sensitive, they.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “An instrument, ye say? That doesna sound verra nice.”

I wrinkled my nose, recalling the strange contraptions as I’d seen them: once, in a catalogue meant for the neighbors. And another time, photographs brandished at a faculty party after too much drink. All steel and hard lines.

Jamie was right—hardly an invitation for the so-called ‘sensitive.’

“It’s called a penis pump. Throughout the first half of the 20th century, they were used strictly for medicinal purposes. To help impotence, and such.”

Jamie nodded somberly.

“But then the 1960s came around, and people began using them for their own recreational uses…I saw quite a number of patients who didn’t know what the bloody hell they were doing. Ended up in the ER.”

Jamie’s bubbling laughter abruptly ceased at the idea of penile injury, and he laid a protective hand over his own member. “Are there…a lot of things like that? Then?”

“Sex toys? A couple. There was the beginning of a sexual revolution during that time,” I replied, and I could see the questions already brewing behind Jamie’s eyes. Anticipated his response. “No, I never used any myself.”

Whether this was a comfort or a disappointment to him, I couldn’t tell, but he seemed suddenly forlorn over the notion of these differences between mankind’s past and future sexuality.

“Does this…excite you? Worry you?” I asked hesitantly, standing. “Would you rather bed me then than bed me now?”

“It’s just that,” Jamie said, smiling and pointing at the pages of Sacred Pleasure in my hand, “it is a wee different in your time than in mine.”

“That’s hardly proof,” I retorted. “20th century writers have just been forced to use their imagination. All those that came before…” I paused, squinting to read the jacket cover, “Ms. August, here, had used all the normal terms already. She had to get creative, I suppose.”

“Aye, ‘creative’ is a certain way of putting it, Sassenach. I dinna think she’s much succeeded, but I’ll grant Ms. August some credit for trying.”

“You mean ‘grasping my love jugs’ isn’t an accurate representation of all bedroom activities?”

“Nay, Sassenach. When I take ye, I dinna cleave ye like a piece of meat—though ye are tasty, if ye dinna mind me saying so.” He eyed my backside with appreciation, and I swerved away to obstruct his view.

“I object to your objectification of me, James Fraser,” I replied. “So tell me, oh ye of such highbrow literary taste—

“Sassenach,” he interrupted, getting to his feet with a provocativeness that spoke plainly of his intentions. Saunter notwithstanding, there was an equally blatant indication further south, and I gladly met him halfway. “Ye asked me, just now, which I’d prefer: 18th century sex or 20th century sex. Mind you, I’ve no’ had the pleasure of bedding a lassie in the 1900s, but…”

I laughed quietly, standing on my tiptoes to nip at his earlobe.

“I’ve been denied that privilege as well. No 20th century women ever made it to my bed, I’m afraid.”

For a man who once told me he’d spent the better part of an evening memorizing Fanny Hill, I was surprised to see the tips of his ears turn pink. Still, his mouth curled up at the side, and I felt his pulse, quick beneath my lips when I pressed them to his neck.

“Ach. I didna mean that, Sassenach. I only meant as I should ask you the same question. You being the expert, in such things as life, then and now.”

I broke away from him and offered a contemplative frown.

“Which is better, you ask…Sex in the 18th century or in the 20th?”

Jamie nodded, a current of expectation surging through him—a response, I thought, that showed a considerable (and much-deserved) amount of confidence in his sexual prowess.

Hoping to tease him, I took my chin in hand and began pacing back and forth.

“Such a quandary you’ve put me in, James Fraser. How will I ever choose?”

He rolled his eyes. A few more moments of half-hearted debate—and with the first seeds of doubt crossing Jamie’s face—I finally turned back.

“Dear me,” I said, smirking, “I’m still positively torn. Perhaps with a bit of persuasion…”

Quick to the bait, Jamie snaked his arm around my waist.

“I’ve been told I can be verra persuasive, Sassenach.” He pulled his body to mine, his hardness pressed in perfect demonstration against my thigh.

I, for one, was not wholly unsupportive of his methods.

“Oh,” I purred. “I can see that.”

“Can ye now?” Eyes gleaming with mischief, Jamie promptly dropped to his knees, hands making a gradual climb up shins, my thighs, until they stopped at my…

“Ahhh,” I moaned, relishing the feel of his fingers, moving in slow but deliberate strokes.

“Is an answer coming to ye yet?”

At the rate this was going, I wagered I would likely come before any coherent answer presented itself. Seeking balance, I ran my fingers through his hair and tugged.

“I think…I think I could be persuaded a little more.” I threw my head back and moaned a second time. “I’m a proper 20th century woman, after all. My opinions are hard-earned.”

I awaited a lewd joke, but Jamie was already pushing me onto the bed, advancing on his knees and lifting my skirts.

“Aye, and I’m a proper 18th century gentleman, Sassenach—I respect my lady’s needs.”

Grabbing me by the buttocks, he pulled me hard and bodily towards him, tongue finding the perfect spot.

I needed no further persuasion.

Sometime later, we lay in a gasping tangle of limbs. Had I any question as to the superiority of the 18th century, I was now confidently in favor of laces, bum rolls, and stockings.

But at the sight of Sacred Pleasure on the bedside table, I felt a pang of sympathy for its buxom heroine, who was the victim of more than Eloise August’s outrageous euphemisms.

The hell of it was: real love was beyond clever wordplay, creative positions, titillating toys, and forbidden locations. Never bound to a time or a place.

What the novelists could never describe was the feeling of my husband’s mouth on me, a butterfly’s touch against my dew-dropped skin. The understanding that, regardless of where or when we were, Jamie would be there, always. The century was hardly relevant—it was the hands that healed you, the lips that worshipped you, and the soul that met yours in the long, quiet hours of the night that truly mattered.

“D’ye really think there’s a difference?” he asked, breathless but returning to that same question.

“As long as it’s with you? No. Surely not.” I inhaled deeply, skin still tingling. “Jamie, that was…”

“Aye,” he said, laughing softly. “D’ye hear that, Sassenach? I dinna ken if that’s my heartbeat or yours, but it’ll wake the whole Ridge soon enough.”

I rolled towards him, seeking the sureness of solid flesh, as I found my footing not in our bedroom or by the height of the moon, but through Jamie’s heat next to mine. I rested my head against him, the synchronized rise and fall of our chests lulling me towards a satiated sleep.

“My heart or yours?” I mumbled, nuzzling his shoulder. “Is there a difference?”

I felt him smile into my hair.

“Nay,” he whispered. “Surely not.”

#;mod liv #coke bottles and romance novels #in which claire describes penis pumps #i haven't tried to write like gabs in a long time so pls forgive

[peterguralnick]

Reading, Writing & Real Life

Sometimes I get asked who or what influenced me most in my deep-seated (and very early) desire to write.

I’ve named books and writers: Tristram Shandy (don’t miss the book, but don’t miss the movie either), Norse mythology, and Henry Green, Alice Munro, Grace Paley and Hubert Selby Jr., Ralph Ellison, Italo Svevo, Sigrid Undset and Zora Neale Hurston. For the last few years I’ve been working on a series of loosely connected short stories suggested by Dawn Powell’s novel My Home Is Far Away, a book that I can best describe as suggesting the tone of Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander transplanted to the world of Winesburg, Ohio. Which could lead me to Hemingway, or Hemingway’s Boat, or – well, I’m sure you get the point.

There were teachers, certainly. Omar Pound (Omar Shakespear Pound, son of Ezra) is the one who stands out the most. He came to Roxbury Latin when I was in the ninth grade and was greeted with almost universal rejection bordering on scorn by my classmates – for his oddity, for his self-determined eccentricities, for his stubborn scruffiness, both personal and intellectual. But for me, and a few others, he provided a wonderful opportunity for self-expression in the two or three extended writing exercises he assigned each week, suggested by a phrase or saying that he provided, of which the only one that comes immediately to mind is, “Only a fool learns from experience.” True? Untrue? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. But as I recall, I wrote a short story that I hope was as open-ended in a fifteen-year-old way and lent itself as much to individual interpretation as I have intended in my biographies of Elvis, Sam Cooke, and Sam Phillips, or any of the other books that I’ve written.

But there’s still that lingering question: what in the world would lead an eight or nine-year-old kid to want to be a writer – if he couldn’t be a be a Major League baseball player, that is. It was my grandfather, Philip Marson, who taught English for over thirty years at Boston Latin (no, not the same Latin School – it’s complicated), founded and ran Camp Alton (which I would later run) in what he conceived of as a fresh-air expansion of the educational experience, dreamed of having the time one day to finish Finnegans Wake (he finally did at seventy-eight, over his customary breakfast of shredded wheat), and explored the second-hand bookstores of Boston’s Cornhill for $.25 masterpieces like Jean Toomer’s Cane, without necessarily passing up a sidetrip to the Old Howard burlesque show in adjacent Scollay Square, where he pulled his hat down over his face for fear of running into one of his students. I wasn’t around for the Old Howard, which closed in 1953, but by the time I was ten or eleven I started accompanying him on his foraging trips to Cornhill (now the site of Government Center), which always included a mid-morning hot fudge sundae at Bailey’s, where the fudge sauce was so thick it could have been a meal by itself.

It was his enthusiasm, I think, that inspired me most of all, his enthusiasm and his unfettered appreciation for life, literature, sports (he was a three-sport athlete at Tufts – Tris Speaker, the Grey Eagle, he said, had praised him for his play in a college game at Fenway Park), grammatical niceties, and democratic ideals. More than just appreciation, it was his undisguised avidity for experience and people of every sort. “Hey, Pete,” he would shout out in his high-pitched voice, to my pre-adolescent, adolescent, and post-adolescent (does that count as adult?) embarrassment, “Will you look at that?” And I’m not going to tell you what that was – because it’s still embarrassing. But, you know, it was always interesting.

But none of that would have counted for anywhere near as much if he were not such an unrestrained fan of me – it just seemed like whatever I did was all right with him. He came to all my baseball games, naturally, but when I took up tennis, which he had always scorned as an artificially encumbered (don’t ask me why), pointless kind of sport, he embraced it wholeheartedly, coming to all my tournaments and swiftly learning the finer points of the game. If I recommended a book, he was quick to embrace it. And when at the age of eleven and twelve and into early adolescence, I suffered from fears that so crippled me that I found it difficult even to go to school, his belief in me never wavered. Or more to the point perhaps, he never seemed to see me as any less, or any different, a person.

I grew up in my grandparents’ house off and on from the time I was born. My father, whom I could cite as an equally inspiring influence in terms of both character and commitment, landed in England the day I was born and didn’t return from the War until I was more than two years old, nearly a year after V-E Day. So my mother and I camped out with my grandparents, very comfortably for me, though I’m not so sure about my mother. (One of the short stories I’ve written lately tries to imagine what it must have been like for her, twenty-three, twenty-four-years old, with no certainty of the future, an only child living with her only child in her parents’ house.) Then, when my father finally came home, we remained for another three years, until we could finally afford a place of our own, moving into the garden apartments that had recently opened up near-by as affordable housing for returning veterans. A year or two after that, my grandparents gave my parents the house and moved to a roomy old apartment in Coolidge Corner, not far away.

Staying with my grandparents on weekends in their new apartment, even more book-crammed than the house because it was crammed with the same books, was always a treat. We went to theater together, my grandmother, my grandfather, and I – I can remember seeing Charles Laughton in Don Juan in Hell, the stand-alone third act of George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman when I was nine or ten years old. (Shaw was always a great favorite of my grandfather’s, along with such native-born contrarians as H.L. Mencken.) We went to serious plays, musicals, Broadway try-outs, and revivals. Along with Shaw, Eugene O’Neill undoubtedly loomed largest in my grandfather’s theatrical cosmos, and it was as exciting to listen to my grandparents talk about seeing Paul Robeson make his Broadway debut in The Emperor Jones or attending O’Neill’s marathon nine-act Strange Interlude, which included a break for dinner, as it was to hear my grandfather tell the story of how he lost his hat when he stood up to cheer Franklin Roosevelt at the Boston Garden.

But it was books in the end that were the instigators of the most passionate discussions, books that inspired me to want to write books of my own, books that would always provide an impetus for dinner-time conversation and home décor. My grandfather introduced me to Romain Rolland’s Jean Christophe, to James Joyce and Knut Hamsun, Joseph Conrad and Ford Madox Ford (he loved to discourse on what he called the shuttle-and-weave of their narrative technique), and Sigrid Undset. I’ll admit, I might well have been better off if I had stuck a little longer with the Landmark series of biographies that continued to excite me or the Scribner Classics editions of Jules Verne and Robert Louis Stevenson and James Fenimore Cooper, with those wonderful N.C. Wyeth illustrations, or any of the other children’s classics that I had indiscriminately devoured. But I was so bereft of self-awareness (while at the same time so consumed by self-consciousness) that I started to record my impressions of each of the books that I read in little tablet notebooks, earnest summaries not just of the books but of my own judgments of them. I could only express my “wonderment at, and admiration for, the author’s scope and ability,” I declared, writing about Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter when I was fifteen. And struggled for six handwritten pages to express more specifically my admiration for this 1000-page trilogy that takes place in fourteenth-century Norway, with its rare combination of epic sweep and unexpected intimacy. My grandfather considered it the greatest novel ever written, a judgment with which, as you can see, I struggled mightily to concur – and in fact still do. But I also knew, as my grandfather’s own omnivorous passion for discovery suggested, that all such judgments were nonsense. In the end, like the question of who was the greatest baseball player of all time, an early and abiding conversation of ours, it was a provisional title only, waiting for the next great thing to come along.  

And yet, and yet, well, you know, when it comes right down to it, it wasn’t books or writing or epistemological fervor that were my primary inspiration. They would have meant nothing if it hadn’t been for everything else. What my grandfather communicated to me most of all was a hunger for life, for the raw stuff of life that served as the underpinning for every great book that either of us admired. I’m oversimplifying, I know, but it just seemed like, in the greater scheme of things, with my grandfather there was no exclusionary gene. There was no sense of high and low (no one appreciated a “dirty joke” more shamelessly than he) and, save for the inviolable principles of grammar and the strict standards of a “good education,” everything was in play, everything existed on the same human plane.  

In many ways, I think that was what opened me up to the blues – not just the music but the experience of the music, the many different implications of the music – which turned out to be the single greatest revelation of my life. So many of the places where I started out are still the places where I am. Books, writing, playing sports (sadly, no more baseball), the blues. As my grandfather got older, his enthusiasm never diminished. When $100 Misunderstanding, an alternating dialogue between a fourteen-year-old black prostitute and her clueless white college john, came out in 1962, my grandfather got the idea that he and I could write a novel in the same manner about the generation gap, which was very much in the news then. We would write alternate chapters – well, you get the picture – and he was so excited about the idea that I couldn’t say no, though we never advanced to the point where we put anything down on paper. When the draft briefly threatened, he decided he would buy land in Canada and we could start a commune there, and while the threat went away before he was ever able to put his idea into practice, I had no doubt it would have been a very interesting (and well-ordered) commune.

A few years later, in 1970, he asked if I would help him run camp the following year. I’m not sure I need to explain, but this came like a bolt out of the blue. Alexandra and I had been working at camp for the last few years, and I was running the tennis program and coaching baseball. “No speculation,” I told my twelve-year-old charges, taking my cue, as always, from William Carlos Williams. It was a wonderful way to spend the summer, and it was certainly rewarding from any number of points of view, not least of which was being close to my grandparents. But not for one moment had the thought of running camp crossed my mind. I was twenty-six-years-old, working on my first full-length published book, Feel Like Going Home, and my fifth unpublished novel, Mister Downchild, and I thought I knew where my future lay.

At the same time, the idea of turning my grandfather down never crossed my mind. He was seventy-eight years old and had never asked for my help before – in fact, I couldn’t remember him ever asking anybody’s help. So, sure, yes, unequivocally. And yet I found it impossible to imagine how this could ever work. How exactly was I going to help? And if his idea was to defer to me, to withdraw and leave the day-to-day running of camp to me, well, this would require a lot more conviction, self-belief, and, above all, knowledge (since no one knew anything about the running of camp except for him) than I possessed. The question was, did I have it in me to be the person that I needed, that I wanted, for my grandfather’s sake, to be?

As it turned out, I never had to answer that question. My grandfather got sick – it appeared at first to be a stroke, it turned out to be a brain tumor – almost immediately after asking for my help. I kept things going over the winter in hopes that he would recover, and when he didn’t, it was like being thrown into the water and discovering, much to your surprise, that you actually knew how to swim. I ended up running camp by myself that summer, and I ran it for twenty-one years after that, and whatever my grandfather intended (and I suspect it was a great deal more than just providing me with an income to support my writing), it turned out to be one of the most rewarding, existentially engaging experiences of my life. And not just in the ways you might expect – camp was a thriving, self-sustaining community of 300 people that continued to grow and evolve, as did my own views of democratic institutions and possibilities – but because it inescapably exposed me to real life, it forced me out into a world in which my feelings were not the center of everything. A world of building things and balancing books, where you dealt of necessity (and to your own incalculable experiential benefit) with all kinds of different people, benefited from the wisdom and experience of others (could that have been what Omar Pound meant?), and learned not just to stand up for yourself but for everyone else, because no matter how much inner turmoil you might feel (and I think back to my ten- and –eleven-year-old self, curled up in a ball reading a book, afraid to leave the comforting familiarity of my room), you don’t have the luxury of dwelling on your own emotions. Because – why? Everyone is depending on you. It forced me, in other words, to grow up, in a way that deeply affected not only my writing but my ability to understand all the different personalities and perspectives that I wanted to portray in both my fiction and my nonfiction, in my biographies and profiles of such multifarious personalities as Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Waylon Jennings, Sam Phillips, and Solomon Burke. It forced me, when it came right down to it, to embrace the world.

My grandfather used to come see me in my dreams sometimes. He always wore his tan windbreaker and stood by the tree on the right field line at camp, where he used to watch my games, both as a kid and as an adult. It was always good to see him – there was never a time I didn’t wish he would stay longer. But even though I rarely see him nowadays, I carry with me always the conviction that he communicated so unhesitantly: that everything is just out there waiting to be discovered. And I try to keep that belief in the forefront – well, maybe the backfront – of my mind. I continue to be drawn on by the prospect, I continue to struggle for its discovery.

#writing #memoir

[angryrdpanda]

The Tragic Mulatto Myth

Lydia Maria Child introduced the literary character that we call the tragic mulatto1 in two short stories: "The Quadroons" (1842) and "Slavery's Pleasant Homes" (1843). She portrayed this light skinned woman as the offspring of a white slaveholder and his black female slave. This mulatto's life was indeed tragic. She was ignorant of both her mother's race and her own. She believed herself to be white and free. Her heart was pure, her manners impeccable, her language polished, and her face beautiful. Her father died; her "negro blood" discovered, she was remanded to slavery, deserted by her white lover, and died a victim of slavery and white male violence. A similar portrayal of the near-white mulatto appeared in Clotel (1853), a novel written by black abolitionist William Wells Brown.

A century later literary and cinematic portrayals of the tragic mulatto emphasized her personal pathologies: self-hatred, depression, alcoholism, sexual perversion, and suicide attempts being the most common. If light enough to "pass" as white, she did, but passing led to deeper self-loathing. She pitied or despised blacks and the "blackness" in herself; she hated or feared whites yet desperately sought their approval. In a race-based society, the tragic mulatto found peace only in death. She evoked pity or scorn, not sympathy. Sterling Brown summarized the treatment of the tragic mulatto by white writers:

White writers insist upon the mulatto's unhappiness for other reasons. To them he is the anguished victim of divided inheritance. Mathematically they work it out that his intellectual strivings and self-control come from his white blood, and his emotional urgings, indolence and potential savagery come from his Negro blood. Their favorite character, the octoroon, wretched because of the "single drop of midnight in her veins," desires a white lover above all else, and must therefore go down to a tragic end.(Brown, 1969, p. 145)

Vara Caspary's novel The White Girl (1929) told the story of Solaria, a beautiful mulatto who passes for white. Her secret is revealed by the appearance of her brown-skinned brother. Depressed, and believing that her skin is becoming darker, Solaria drinks poison. A more realistic but equally depressing mulatto character is found in Geoffrey Barnes' novel Dark Lustre (1932). Alpine, the light-skinned "heroine," dies in childbirth, but her white baby lives to continue "a cycle of pain." Both Solaria and Alpine are repulsed by blacks, especially black suitors.

Most tragic mulattoes were women, although the self-loathing Sergeant Waters in A Soldier's Story (Jewison, 1984) clearly fits the tragic mulatto stereotype. The troubled mulatto is portrayed as a selfish woman who will give up all, including her black family, in order to live as a white person. These words are illustrative:

Don't come for me. If you see me in the street, don't speak to me. From this moment on I'm White. I am not colored. You have to give me up.

These words were spoken by Peola, a tortured, self-hating black girl in the movie Imitation of Life (Laemmle & Stahl, 1934). Peola, played adeptly by Fredi Washington, had skin that looked white. But she was not socially white. She was a mulatto. Peola was tired of being treated as a second-class citizen; tired, that is, of being treated like a 1930s black American. She passed for white and begged her mother to understand.

Imitation of Life, based on Fannie Hurst's best selling novel, traces the lives of two widows, one white and the employer, the other black and the servant. Each woman has one daughter. The white woman, Beatrice Pullman (played by Claudette Colbert), hires the black woman, Delilah, (played by Louise Beavers) as a live-in cook and housekeeper. It is the depression, and the two women and their daughters live in poverty -- even a financially struggling white woman can afford a mammy. Their economic salvation comes when Delilah shares a secret pancake recipe with her boss. Beatrice opens a restaurant, markets the recipe, and soon becomes wealthy. She offers Delilah, the restaurant's cook, a twenty percent share of the profits. Regarding the recipe, Delilah, a true cinematic mammy, delivers two of the most pathetic lines ever from a black character: "I gives it to you, honey. I makes you a present of it." While Delilah is keeping her mistress's family intact, her relationship with Peola, her daughter, disintegrates.

Peola is the antithesis of the mammy caricature. Delilah knows her place in the Jim Crow hierarchy: the bottom rung. Hers is an accommodating resignation, bordering on contentment. Peola hates her life, wants more, wants to live as a white person, to have the opportunities that whites enjoy. Delilah hopes that her daughter will accept her racial heritage. "He [God] made you black, honey. Don't be telling Him his business. Accept it, honey." Peola wants to be loved by a white man, to marry a white man. She is beautiful, sensual, a potential wife to any white man who does not know her secret. Peola wants to live without the stigma of being black -- and in the 1930s that stigma was real and measurable. Ultimately and inevitably, Peola rejects her mother, runs away, and passes for white. Delilah dies of a broken heart. A repentant and tearful Peola returns to her mother's funeral.

Audiences, black and white (and they were separate), hated what Peola did to her mother -- and they hated Peola. She is often portrayed as the epitome of selfishness. In many academic discussions about tragic mulattoes the name Peola is included. From the mid-1930s through the late 1970s, Peola was an epithet used by blacks against light-skinned black women who identified with mainstream white society. A Peola looked white and wanted to be white. During the Civil Rights Movement and the Black Power Movement, the name Peola was an insult comparable to Uncle Tom, albeit a light-skinned female version.

Fredi Washington, the black actress who played Peola, was light enough to pass for white. Rumor has it that in later movies makeup was used to "blacken" her skin so white audiences would know her race. She had sharply defined features; long, dark, and straight hair, and green eyes; this limited the roles she was offered. She could not play mammy roles, and though she looked white, no acknowledged black was allowed to play a white person from the 1930's through the 1950's.

Imitation of Life was remade in 1959 (Hunter & Sirk). The plot is essentially the same; however, Peola is called Sara Jane, and she is played by Susan Kohner, a white actress. Delilah is now Annie Johnson. The pancake storyline is gone. Instead, the white mistress is a struggling actress. The crux of the story remains the light-skinned girl's attempts to pass for white. She runs away and becomes a chorus girl in a sleazy nightclub. Her dark skinned mother (played by Juanita Moore) follows her. She begs her mother to leave her alone. Sara Jane does not want to marry a "colored chauffeur"; she wants a white boyfriend. She gets a white boyfriend, but, when he discovers her secret, he savagely beats her and leaves her in a gutter. As in the original, Sara Jane's mother dies from a broken heart, and the repentant child tearfully returns to the funeral.

Peola and Sara Jane were cinematic tragic mulattoes. They were big screen testaments to the commonly held belief that "mixed blood" brought sorrow. If only they did not have a "drop of Negro blood." Many audience members nodded agreement when Annie Johnson asked rhetorically, "How do you explain to your daughter that she was born to hurt?"

Were real mulattoes born to hurt? All racial minorities in the United States have been victimized by the dominant group, although the expressions of that oppression vary. Mulattoes were considered black; therefore, they were slaves along with their darker kinsmen. All slaves were "born to hurt," but some writers have argued that mulattoes were privileged, relative to dark-skinned blacks. E.B. Reuter (1919), a historian, wrote:

In slavery days, they were most frequently the trained servants and had the advantages of daily contact with cultured men and women. Many of them were free and so enjoyed whatever advantages went with that superior status. They were considered by the white people to be superior in intelligence to the black Negroes, and came to take great pride in the fact of their white blood....When possible, they formed a sort of mixed-blood caste and held themselves aloof from the black Negroes and the slaves of lower status. (p. 378)

Reuter's claim that mulattoes were held in higher regard and treated better than "pure blacks" must be examined closely. American slavery lasted for more than two centuries; therefore, it is difficult to generalize about the institution. The interactions between slaveholder and slaves varied across decades--and from plantation to plantation. Nevertheless, there are clues regarding the status of mulattoes. In a variety of public statements and laws, the offspring of white-black sexual relations were referred to as "mongrels" or "spurious" (Nash, 1974, p. 287). Also, these interracial children were always legally defined as pure blacks, which was different from how they were handled in other New World countries. A slaveholder claimed that there was "not an old plantation in which the grandchildren of the owner [therefore mulattos] are not whipped in the field by his overseer" (Furnas, 1956, p. 142). Further, it seems that mulatto women were sometimes targeted for sexual abuse.

According to the historian J. C. Furnas (1956), in some slave markets, mulattoes and quadroons brought higher prices, because of their use as sexual objects (p. 149). Some slavers found dark skin vulgar and repulsive. The mulatto approximated the white ideal of female attractiveness. All slave women (and men and children) were vulnerable to being raped, but the mulatto afforded the slave owner the opportunity to rape, with impunity, a woman who was physically white (or near-white) but legally black. A greater likelihood of being raped is certainly not an indication of favored status.

The mulatto woman was depicted as a seductress whose beauty drove white men to rape her. This is an obvious and flawed attempt to reconcile the prohibitions against miscegenation (interracial sexual relations) with the reality that whites routinely used blacks as sexual objects. One slaver noted, "There is not a likely looking girl in this State that is not the concubine of a White man..." (Furnas, 1956, p. 142). Every mulatto was proof that the color line had been crossed. In this regard, mulattoes were symbols of rape and concubinage. Gary B. Nash (1974) summarized the slavery-era relationship between the rape of black women, the handling of mulattoes, and white dominance:

Though skin color came to assume importance through generations of association with slavery, white colonists developed few qualms about intimate contact with black women. But raising the social status of those who labored at the bottom of society and who were defined as abysmally inferior was a matter of serious concern. It was resolved by insuring that the mulatto would not occupy a position midway between white and black. Any black blood classified a person as black; and to be black was to be a slave.... By prohibiting racial intermarriage, winking at interracial sex, and defining all mixed offspring as black, white society found the ideal answer to its labor needs, its extracurricular and inadmissible sexual desires, its compulsion to maintain its culture purebred, and the problem of maintaining, at least in theory, absolute social control. (pp. 289-290)

George M. Fredrickson (1971), author of The Black Image in the White Mind, claimed that many white Americans believed that mulattoes were a degenerate race because they had "White blood" which made them ambitious and power hungry combined with "Black blood" which made them animalistic and savage. The attributing of personality and morality traits to "blood" seems foolish today, but it was taken seriously in the past. Charles Carroll, author of The Negro a Beast (1900), described blacks as apelike. Regarding mulattoes, the offspring of "unnatural relationships," they did not have "the right to live," because, Carroll said, they were the majority of rapists and killers (Fredrickson, 1971, p. 277). His claim was untrue but widely believed. In 1899 a southern white woman, L. H. Harris, wrote to the editor of the Independent that the "negro brute" who rapes white women was "nearly always a mulatto," with "enough white blood in him to replace native humility and cowardice with Caucasian audacity" (Fredrickson, 1971, p. 277). Mulatto women were depicted as emotionally troubled seducers and mulatto men as power hungry criminals. Nowhere are these depictions more evident than in D. W. Griffith's film The Birth of a Nation (1915).

The Birth of a Nation is arguably the most racist mainstream movie produced in the United States. This melodrama of the Civil War and Reconstruction justified and glorified the Ku Klux Klan. Indeed, the Klan of the 1920s owes its existence to William Joseph Simmons, an itinerant Methodist preacher who watched the film a dozen times, then felt divinely inspired to resurrect the Klan which had been dormant since 1871. D. W. Griffith based the film on Thomas Dixon's anti-black novel The Clansman (1905) (also the original title of the movie). Griffith, following Dixon's lead, depicted his black characters as either "loyal darkies" or brutes and beasts lusting for power and, worse yet, lusting for white women.

The Birth of a Nation tells the story of two families, the Stonemans of Pennsylvania, and the Camerons of South Carolina. The Stonemans, headed by politician Austin Stoneman, and the Camerons, headed by slaveholder "Little Colonel" Ben Cameron, have their longtime friendship divided by the Civil War. The Civil War exacts a terrible toll on both families: both have sons die in the war. The Camerons, like many slaveholders, suffer "ruin, devastation, rapine, and pillage." The Birth of a Nation depicts Radical Reconstruction as a time when blacks dominate and oppress whites. The film shows blacks pushing whites off sidewalks, snatching the possessions of whites, attempting to rape a white teenager, and killing blacks who are loyal to whites (Leab, 1976, p. 28). Stoneman, a carpetbagger, moves his family to the South. He falls under the influence of Lydia, his mulatto housekeeper and mistress.

Austin Stoneman is portrayed as a naive politician who betrays his people: whites. Lydia, his lover, is described in a subtitle as the "weakness that is to blight a nation." Stoneman sends another mulatto, Silas Lynch, to "aid the carpetbaggers in organizing and wielding the power of the vote." Lynch, owing to his "white blood," becomes ambitious. He and his agents rile the local blacks. They attack whites and pillage. Lynch becomes lieutenant governor, and his black co-conspirators are voted into statewide political offices. The Birth of a Nation shows black legislators debating a bill to legalize interracial marriage -- their legs propped on tables, eating chicken, and drinking whiskey.

Silas Lynch proposes marriage to Stoneman's daughter, Elsie. He says, "I will build a black empire and you as my queen shall rule by my side." When she refuses, he binds her and decides on a "forced marriage." Lynch informs Stoneman that he wants to marry a white woman. Stoneman approves until he discovers that the white woman is his daughter. While this drama unfolds, blacks attack whites. It looks hopeless until the newly formed Ku Klux Klan arrives to reestablish white rule.

The Birth of a Nation set the standard for cinematic technical innovation -- the imaginative use of cross-cutting, lighting, editing, and close-ups. It also set the standard for cinematic anti-black images. All of the major black caricatures are in the movie, including, mammies, sambos, toms, picaninnies, coons, beasts, and tragic mulattoes. The depictions of Lydia -- a cold-hearted, hateful seductress -- and Silas Lynch -- a power hungry, sex-obsessed criminal -- were early examples of the pathologies supposedly inherent in the tragic mulatto stereotype.

Mulattoes did not fare better in other books and movies, especially those who passed for white. In Nella Larsen's novel Passing (1929), Clare, a mulatto passing for white, frequently is drawn to blacks in Harlem. Her bigoted white husband finds her there. Her problems are solved when she falls to her death from a sixth story window. In the movie Show Boat(Laemmle & Whale, 1936), a beautiful young entertainer, Julie, discovers that she has "Negro blood." Existing laws held that "one drop of Negro blood makes you a Negro." Her husband (and the movie's writers and producer) take this "one drop rule" literally. The husband cuts her hand with a knife and sucks her blood. This supposedly makes him a Negro. Afterward Julie and her newly-mulattoed husband walk hand-in-hand. Nevertheless, she is a screen mulatto, so the movie ends with this one-time cheerful "white" woman, now a Negro alcoholic.

Lost Boundaries is a book by William L. White (1948), made into a movie in 1949 (de Rochemont & Werker). It tells the story of a troubled mulatto couple, the Johnsons. The husband is a physician, but he cannot get a job in a southern black hospital because he "looks white," and no southern white hospital will hire him. The Johnsons move to New England and pass for white. They become pillars of their local community -- all the while terrified of being discredited. Years later, when their secret is discovered, the townspeople turn against them. The town's white minister delivers a sermon on racial tolerance which leads the locals, shamefaced and guilt-ridden, to befriend again the mulatto couple. Lost Boundaries, despite the white minister's sermon, blames the mulatto couple, not a racist culture, for the discrimination and personal conflicts faced by the Johnsons.

In 1958 Natalie Wood starred in Kings Go Forth (Ross & Daves), the story of a young French mulatto who passes for white. She becomes involved with two American soldiers on leave from World War II. They are both infatuated with her until they discover that her father is black. Both men desert her. She attempts suicide unsuccessfully. Given another chance to live, she turns her family's large home into a hostel for war orphans, "those just as deprived of love as herself" (Bogle, 1994, p. 192). At the movie's end, one of the soldiers is dead; the other, missing an arm, returns to the mulatto woman. They are comparable, both damaged, and it is implied that they will marry.

The mulatto women portrayed in Show Boat, Lost Boundaries, and Kings Go Forthwere portrayed by white actresses. It was a common practice. Producers felt that white audiences would feel sympathy for a tortured white woman, even if she was portraying a mulatto character. The audience knew she was really white. In Pinky(Zanuck & Kazan, 1949), Jeanne Crain, a well-known actress, played the role of the troubled mulatto. Her dark-skinned grandmother was played by Ethel Waters. When audiences saw Ethel Waters doing menial labor, it was consistent with their understanding of a mammy's life, but when Jeanne Crain was shown washing other people's clothes audiences cried.

Even black filmmakers like Oscar Micheaux made movies with tragic mulattoes. Within Our Gates (Micheaux, 1920) tells the story of a mulatto woman who is hit by a car, menaced by a con man, nearly raped by a white man, and witnesses the lynching of her entire family. God's Step Children (Micheaux, 1938) tells the story of Naomi, a mulatto who leaves her black husband and child and passes for white. Later, consumed by guilt, she commits suicide. Mulatto actresses played these roles.

Fredi Washington, the star of Imitation of Life, was one of the first cinematic tragic mulattoes. She was followed by women like Dorothy Dandridge and Nina Mae McKinney. Dandridge deserves special attention because she not only portrayed doomed, unfulfilled women, but she was the embodiment of the tragic mulatto in real life. Her role as the lead character in Carmen Jones (Preminger, 1954) helped make her a star. She was the first black featured on the cover of Life magazine. In Island in the Sun (Zanuck & Rossen, 1957) she was the first black woman to be held -- lovingly -- in the arms of a white man in an American movie. She was a beautiful and talented actress, but Hollywood was not ready for a black leading lady; the only roles offered to her were variants of the tragic mulatto theme. Her personal life was filled with failed relationships. Disillusioned by roles that limited her to exotic, self-destructive mulatto types, she went to Europe, where she fared worse. She died in 1965, at the age of forty-two, from an overdose of anti-depressants.

Today's successful mulatto actresses -- for example, Halle Berry, Lisa Bonet and Jasmine Guy -- owe a debt to the pioneering efforts of Dandridge. These women have great wealth and fame. They are bi-racial, but their statuses and circumstances are not tragic. They are not marginalized; they are mainstream celebrities. Dark-skinned actress -- Whoopi Goldberg, Angela Bassett, Alfre Woodard, and Joie Lee -- have enjoyed comparable success. They, too, benefit from Dandridge's path clearing.

The tragic mulatto was more myth than reality; Dandridge was an exception. The mulatto was made tragic in the minds of whites who reasoned that the greatest tragedy was to be near-white: so close, yet a racial gulf away. The near-white was to be pitied -- and shunned. There were undoubtedly light skinned blacks, male and female, who felt marginalized in this race conscious culture. This was true for many people of color, including dark skinned blacks. Self-hatred and intraracial hatred are not limited to light skinned blacks. There is evidence that all racial minorities in the United States have battled feelings of inferiority and in-group animosity; those are, unfortunately, the costs of being a minority.

The tragic mulatto stereotype claims that mulattoes occupy the margins of two worlds, fitting into neither, accepted by neither. This is not true of real life mulattoes. Historically, mulattoes were not only accepted into the black community, but were often its leaders and spokespersons, both nationally and at neighborhood levels. Frederick Douglass, W.E.B. DuBois, Booker T. Washington, Elizabeth Ross Haynes,2 Mary Church Terrell,3 Thurgood Marshall, Malcolm X, and Louis Farrakhan were all mulattoes. Walter White, the former head of the NAACP, and Adam Clayton Powell, an outspoken Congressman, were both light enough to pass for white. Other notable mulattoes include Langston Hughes, Billie Holiday, and Jean Toomer, author of Cane (1923), and the grandson of mulatto Reconstruction politician P.B.S. Pinchback.

There was tragedy in the lives of light skinned black women -- there was also tragedy in the lives of most dark skinned black women -- and men and children. The tragedy was not that they were black, or had a drop of "Negro blood," although whites saw that as a tragedy. Rather, the real tragedy was the way race was used to limit the chances of people of color. The 21st century finds an America increasingly more tolerant of interracial unions and the resulting offspring.

© Dr. David Pilgrim, Professor of Sociology Ferris State University Nov., 2000 Edited 2012

1 A mulatto is defined as: the first general offspring of a black and white parent; or, an individual with both white and black ancestors. Generally, mulattoes are light-skinned, though dark enough to be excluded from the white race.

2 Elizabeth Ross Haynes was a social worker, sociologist, and a pioneer in the YWCA movement.

3 Mary Church Terrell was a feminist, civil rights activist, and the first president of the National Association of Colored Women.

Also See: Tragic Mulatto Stereotype Image Gallery

#tragic mulatto #stereotypes #racial myths #Dr. David Pilgrim #Jim Crow #history #slavery #race #racism #sociology #Lydia Maria Child #William Wells Brown #Vara Caspary #Geoffrey Barnes #Fredi Washington #Fannie Hurst #Claudette Colbert #Louise Beavers #Juanita Moore #Susan Kohner #E.B. Reuter #J. C. Furnas #Gary B. Nash #George M. Fredrickson #Charles Carroll #D. W. Griffith #Thomas Dixon #William L. White #Mary Church Terrell #Natalie Wood

[austenmarriage]

New Post has been published on Austen Marriage

New Post has been published on http://austenmarriage.com/1425-2/

Survey of Janeites, Thoughts on the Results

In 2008, the Jane Austen Society of North America took a survey of its membership about Austen’s characters. I’ve come across the results several times. I thought I’d recap them here and offer a few thoughts of my own.

Fully one-third of Janeites read three or more of Austen’s books in a year. Eleven percent read all six every year. By far (53 percent), Pride and Prejudice is the most popular book. Next is Persuasion (28 percent). Though it’s also my second favorite, most of my Janeite friends, plus several academics I respect, prefer Emma. I assume Persuasion carries the day because mature readers like the story of a mature woman having her “second spring.”

From Persuasion it’s a big drop down to Emma at 7 percent. Because of the popularity of the movie(s) made of Sense and Sensibility (especially Emma Thompson’s 1995 version, which set off the current Austen stampede), I was a little short of stunned that this book was so far down the list at 5 percent. I guess readers are more discerning than movie viewers; or, perhaps, the movie overcomes some of the book’s weaknesses.

Dragging their petticoats through the mud are Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey at 4 percent each. I admire a lot of things about MP, especially the large cast of characters, but I don’t think Austen quite pulls off the multiple story lines. I always felt that Northanger was a nice first try, though I’ve gained more respect for it in recent close readings. When Austen gets away from the Gothic schtick, the writing in NA is, to me, better than that in S&S. I suggest that S&S was a more complete story in its original form of a novel-in-letters but that Austen did little in the way of revision beyond converting it to a direct narrative. On the other hand, NA seems much “younger” in some ways and limited by the Gothic framing device. Yet in other places, the writing is far crisper and more advanced than what seems to be the slightly more old-fashioned form in S&S.

Here’s a shock: The favorite heroine was Elizabeth Bennet (58 percent) over Anne Elliot (24 percent). Liz is the only heroine who goes toe to toe with every antagonist. I often wonder why Austen never came back to a similar strong lead character. No one else gets more votes than Elinor Dashwood’s 7 percent. Emma Woodhouse, whom I thought would poll higher, gets only 5 percent. Emma is strong, but she was born into a superior position. I feel a certain bemusement that Fanny Price would slightly outpoll Catherine Moreland, 3 percent to 2 percent. Fanny may have ramrod moral fiber, but Catherine’s a whole lot more interesting. Janeites feel no sympathy for the sensibility-laden Marianne Dashwood at 1 percent.

No surprise, either, for favorite hero: Fitzwilliam Darcy, 51 percent. Given the strong second position of Persuasion, it’s surprising that only 17 percent voted for Frederick Wentworth. I would have picked George Knightley as my leading man, but he polled only 14 percent. I guess a man’s being perceptive, kind, and hard-working doesn’t do it for the ladies (96 percent of survey respondents were female). Henry Tilney manages 10 percent and Colonel Brandon, 5 percent. I like Henry’s sense of humor, but he also does a lot of mansplaining to the ladies. I’m not sure I want to meet the 1 percent each who voted for Edward Ferrars and Edmund Bertram as the leading males. Austen must have liked them, but there’s no reason for anyone else to. I’ll qualify that by pointing out Edmund’s kindness to Fanny early on. But he’s oblivious to her feelings when it matters. His purloining of her horse for Mary Crawford is downright cruel. Edmund seems to marry Fanny because she’s the only female within sight at the end.

In the category of favorite bad boys, the top three were predictable: 33 percent chose Wickham; 28 percent, Willoughby; and 16 percent, Crawford. The rest of the list is puzzling. Frank Churchill, who polled 10 percent, is not a bad boy in the sense of an evil person with superficial charm. He’s an honest charmer and insensitive jerk. Flirting with another woman to disguise an engagement is not in the same league as seducing young women. William Elliot, on the other hand, is manifestly evil, yet he pulled fewer votes at 7 percent. Six percent went for General Tilney, who’s not a charmer or a boy. The General is nasty stuff, but Austen leavens him subtly by showing his continuing grief for his late wife. Catherine Morland misunderstands this as guilt over his having done away with her.

Here’s a survey question I’d have never thought of: Worst Parents. Sir Walter Elliot of Persuasion is the runaway winner at 54 percent. It’s sad to see Mansfield Park get all the other votes: 16 percent for Mr. and Mrs. Price and 15 percent for Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram.

I take exception to the votes against Sir Thomas. He takes in Fanny (and later her sister), he helps her brother get into the Navy and even pays to outfit him. It’s true that Sir Thomas angrily banishes Fanny to Portsmouth for rejecting Henry Crawford. But Sir Thomas doesn’t know she loves Edmund. He fears she is giving up a good man in Crawford and possibly the best offer she may ever receive. He thinks she’s being obstinate when she’s being true to her own beliefs. Fanny’s unpleasant stay at Portsmouth does teach her to appreciate Mansfield Park. Her absence, meanwhile, teaches Sir Thomas to appreciate Fanny.

Another fun category was four comic characters who delight us. P&P brings home the prize here, with Mrs. Bennet at 74 percent and Mr. Collins at 70 percent. The other two were Admiral Croft at 56 percent and Miss Bates at 50.

It’s understandable for Mrs. Bennet to lead the list. Being crass, she’s unintentionally funny. But she has also, I think, received more bad press than she deserves. Austen gives both sides of the story with her synopsis: “She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married.”

Unlike her husband, who seems content with whatever may happen with his brood, Mrs. Bennet is desperate to see them settled in a decent home. She lacks the natural joy of Jane or the intelligence and class of Liz, but she’s trying to take care of her children the only way she knows how. We sympathize, even as we chuckle.

Admiral Croft is more than a funny guy. He’s astute enough to let Anne Elliot know that she’ll have another chance at Captain Wentworth: The Admiral’s wife, Sophy, is inviting him to Bath. Scene from the 1995 Persuasion movie directed by Roger Michell.

The Admiral is another puzzler. He has his amusing moments. He can navigate a 74-gun battleship around the world but can’t manage a one-horse gig on a country lane. Yet he is not a comic character. He’s a very wise one. Along, no doubt, with his wife, Sophy, Admiral Croft is a shrewd observer of people. His conversation with Anne Elliot on the streets of Bath is not that of a man oblivious to her situation but one very much aware of her feelings for Wentworth, and his for her. He lets Anne know she’ll get another shot at her man:

“Poor Frederick!” said he at last. “Now he must begin all over again with somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?”

I have no idea if JASNA plans to update the survey. It’d be interesting to see if the responses have changed significantly over the last decade. About 4,500 people participated, a huge turnout. Janeites love their Austen characters, and love to offer their views on them.

—

The Marriage of Miss Jane Austen, which traces love from a charming courtship through the richness and complexity of marriage and concludes with a test of the heroine’s courage and moral convictions, is now complete and available from Amazon and Jane Austen Books.

#Emma #Emma Thompson #Jane Austen #JASNA #Mansfield Park #Northanger Abbey #Persuasion #Pride and Prejudice #Sense and Sensibility #The Marriage of Miss Jane Austen

[avanneman]

Sebastian Mallaby, shamelessly—nay, nakedly—covering Alan’s ass

(Author’s note: What started as a brief headslap directed at Sebastian Mallaby turned into a 3,000+ word semi-diatribe on the subject of the multiple sins of Sebastian, Alan Greenspan, and a few other big-wigs. Read at your own risk.)

Okay, not my ass, the other Alan’s ass—Alan Greenspan, former chairman of the Federal Reserve. The tenth anniversary of the collapse of Lehman Brothers prompted Sebastian—or at least gave him the hook—to play the ever-popular “exploding the myth” card, this time explaining that “we” were all so wrong to blame the Great Recession on Greenspan, godfather of the notion that markets are never wrong. Said Mallaby

The central error in the popular post-crisis consensus was the idea that naive believers in the self-policing efficiency of markets led us over the precipice. Greenspan was painted as the high priest of this laissez-fairy-tale delusion, and people seized on a moment when he appeared to plead guilty: Under the pressure of congressional questioning, he confessed to a ‘flaw’ in his pro-market ideology. What Greenspan meant was that all belief systems — whether pro-government or pro-market — are imperfect. But that subtlety was lost. Quoted and requoted without proportion or context, Greenspan’s purported mea culpa threatened to define his legacy.

“[L]aissez-fairy-tale”? Funny, Sebastian, funny! You’re a funny man! But, alas, too honest for your own good! You see, Sebastian very sportingly linked us to an article that appeared in the New York Times that described the events of the congressional hearing at which Greenspan made his “purported mea culpa”, which was not “purported” at all. The article, “Greenspan Concedes Error on Regulation”, by Edmund L. Andrews (or “Eddie L”, as his friends call him), ran on Oct. 24, 2008, and, sportingly or unsportingly, quoted Alan a little bit more extensively than Sebastian did, to wit:

“Those of us who have looked to the self-interest of lending institutions to protect shareholders’ equity, myself included, are in a state of shocked disbelief.”

That doesn’t sound like a “purported mea culpa” to me. It sounds more like “guilty as charged.” Greenspan didn’t “mean” that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in human philosophies. He meant that “[t]hose of us who have looked to the self-interest of lending institutions to protect shareholders’ equity, myself included, are in a state of shocked disbelief.”

Mallaby goes on in his column to cite instances where the supposedly laissez-faire Greenspan actually labored, over and over again, to increase the regulation of unruly markets, only to be thwarted, over and over again:

The important lesson of the crisis is not that markets are fallible, which every thoughtful person knew already. It is that essential regulations — the sort that the supposedly anti-regulation Greenspan actually favored — are stymied by fractured government machinery and rapacious lobbies. Even today, the financial system has multiple overseers answerable to multiple congressional committees, because all this multiplying produces extra opportunities for lawmakers to extract campaign contributions.

In other words, as Herbert Hoover said, “The trouble with capitalism is capitalists. They’re too damned greedy.” Well, Milton Friedman said the same thing, noting that every businessman wants special favors for no one—except himself, that is, because his business is unique in all the world. But expatiating on the warped wood of humanity doesn’t let Greenspan as easily off the hook as Mallaby would have us believe. The Times article by Andrews carries some pretty damning paragraphs:

Critics, including many economists, now blame the former Fed chairman for the financial crisis that is tipping the economy into a potentially deep recession. Mr. Greenspan’s critics say that he encouraged the bubble in housing prices by keeping interest rates too low for too long and that he failed to rein in the explosive growth of risky and often fraudulent mortgage lending.

“You had the authority to prevent irresponsible lending practices that led to the subprime mortgage crisis. You were advised to do so by many others,” said Representative Henry A. Waxman of California, chairman of the committee [that heard Greenspan’s testimony]. “Do you feel that your ideology pushed you to make decisions that you wish you had not made?”

Mr. Greenspan conceded: “Yes, I’ve found a flaw. I don’t know how significant or permanent it is. But I’ve been very distressed by that fact.”

On a day that brought more bad news about rising home foreclosures and slumping employment, Mr. Greenspan refused to accept blame for the crisis but acknowledged that his belief in deregulation had been shaken.

He noted that the immense and largely unregulated business of spreading financial risk widely, through the use of exotic financial instruments called derivatives, had gotten out of control and had added to the havoc of today’s crisis. As far back as 1994, Mr. Greenspan staunchly and successfully opposed tougher regulation on derivatives.

But on Thursday, he agreed that the multitrillion-dollar market for credit default swaps, instruments originally created to insure bond investors against the risk of default, needed to be restrained.

“This modern risk-management paradigm held sway for decades,” he said. “The whole intellectual edifice, however, collapsed in the summer of last year.”

Mr. Waxman noted that the Fed chairman had been one of the nation’s leading voices for deregulation, displaying past statements in which Mr. Greenspan had argued that government regulators were no better than markets at imposing discipline.

“Were you wrong?” Mr. Waxman asked.

“Partially,” the former Fed chairman reluctantly answered, before trying to parse his concession as thinly as possible.

So it sounds very much as though Mr. Greenspan, and the rest of us, were hoist, not merely on the warped wood of humanity but via Mr. Greenspan’s warped ideology as well.

So far, so good. But instead of dispatching Mr. Mallaby’s disingenuous tomfoolery simply on the basis of the Times article—doing so might make a tomfool out of me, which has happened more than once—I decided to do a little digging. I didn’t feel like reading Mr. Mallaby’s biography of Greenspan, The Man Who Knew: The Life and Times of Alan Greenspan, but fortunately I found a pretty classy shortcut—a long, generally complimentary review1 by none other than Ben Bernanke, former chair of President George W. Bush’s Council of Economic Advisors and, in 2006, Alan Greenspan’s successor as chair of the federal reserve.

Overall, I would call Benanke’s review “complimentary”—too complimentary, in fact—of both Mallaby and Greenspan. Bernanke follows Mallaby in insisting that Greenspan wasn’t a blinkered ideologue:

However, contrary to the stereotype, Greenspan was not inflexibly opposed to tougher rules and oversight of financial activities. He rarely resisted regulatory initiatives put forth by the Federal Reserve Board staff, for example, and on at least a few occasions he publicly advocated stronger financial regulation—Mallaby cites in particular Greenspan’s concerns about the government-sponsored enterprises, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, and his support for enhanced auditing standards after the Enron scandal.

Furthermore, Bernanke “explains” that when Greenspan did oppose regulation that, in retrospect, might have helped prevent or mitigate the 2008 crash, his reasons for doing so were nuanced (my word) rather than knee-jerk:

The multiple influences on Greenspan’s regulatory views are nicely conveyed in Mallaby’s recounting of two famous episodes involving, respectively, Brooksley Born of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission and Ned Gramlich of Greenspan’s own Board. Born’s advocacy of expanded derivatives regulation and Gramlich’s support for tougher restrictions on subprime mortgage lending were both opposed by Greenspan (and, in Born’s case, also by Robert Rubin and Larry Summers of the Clinton Treasury). In retrospect, of course, Born and Gramlich were (largely) right and Greenspan was wrong. What Mallaby shows, however, is that the debates over their proposals were not the black-and-white ideological clashes they are often made out to be, but rather involved a range of personal, political, and policy considerations, consistent with Mallaby’s less ideological portrait of Greenspan.

So (rather combining Mallaby’s, Andrews’, and Bernanke’s accounts), when Greenspan opposed regulation, or at least failed to achieve it, it wasn’t simply because of ideology; rather, it involved a “range of personal, political, and policy considerations”. Yes, but the end result was, miraculously enough, always the same, reminding me of a verse from Lewis Carroll:

But I was thinking of a plan To dye one’s whiskers green And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen.

However copious the fan, Alan’s whiskers, it seems, always glow greenly in the twilight.

But wait, there's more In fact, I’m just getting started. Bernanke and Mallaby have a lot to say about the $64 question, which Sebastian left out entirely of his column exonerating Greenspan of any blame for failing to avert the events that culminated in the ’08 Crash. Bernanke puts it this way: “much more so than most economists, especially academics, Greenspan was willing to entertain the possibility that financial markets could go seriously off the rails. This leaves the author [Mallaby], though, with a bit of a problem: If Greenspan was not ideologically constrained, and if he was ‘the man who knew’ the dangers posed by financial instability, why didn’t he do more to prevent the building risks that culminated in the 2007 financial crisis?”

Well, says Mallaby, “Despite his extraordinary prestige, Greenspan knew he could survive in Washington only by avoiding fights, or by engaging in them passively and deviously. It was an approach that came naturally to a sensitive, shy man. Haunted by the absence of a pale father, intimidated by the presence of a vivid mother, he often lacked the confidence to confront others personally and directly.”

So it’s mommy issues, plus those rapacious lobbyists once more, who scared poor Alan. That’s why he didn’t push for stronger regulation. But what about “monetary” issues, asks Bernanke? Here, Bernanke says, Mallaby is tougher, and makes criticisms that he didn’t make in his September 9 post: “Mallaby concludes that Greenspan can therefore be held culpable for not using his control of monetary policy to prevent the buildup of financial risks. Most importantly, Mallaby argues, Greenspan should have kept policy tighter than he did during 1998-99 and 2004-2005, to fight the tech bubble and the housing bubble, respectively.”

Was it ideology this time around? Not really, says Mallaby. Again, it was pretty much the vivid mommy thing that kept Alan from mixing it up with the big, bad boys on Wall Street. On the one hand, Bernanke is dubious of this theory. He doesn’t think Greenspan was a fraidy cat. On the other, he doesn’t think Greenspan was too slow off the mark, particularly in addressing the housing bubble, which he claims Greenspan started to do in June 2004, when the bubble wasn’t all that big and unemployment was “still 5.6 percent.” (Apparently, bubbles can be useful when unemployment is “high”). Mallaby and Bernanke wield different fans, but Greenspan’s whiskers still remain discreetly hidden.

There is some “interesting” real-time commentary on this subject via a column by Paul Krugman dated Aug. 29, 2005, “Alan Greenspan and the Bubble”, who unsurprisingly offers a sharper take on the matter, pointing out that in October 2004, Greenspan said, regarding the increases in housing prices, “While local economies may experience significant speculative price imbalances, a national severe price distortion seems most unlikely.” Krugman also notes that by 2005 Greenspan was warning against “the prevalence of interest-only loans and the introduction of more-exotic forms of adjustable-rate mortgages.” But, says Krugman, in 2004 Greenspan liked adjustable-rate mortgages, quoting him as saying “American consumers might benefit if lenders provided greater mortgage product alternatives to the traditional fixed-rate mortgage.”

Krugman also notes other shortcomings of Greenspan that remain unmentioned by either Mallaby or Bernanke, both in his Aug. 29 column and in later postings. Krugman rightly toasts Greenspan for the following:

Regular readers know that I have never forgiven the Federal Reserve chairman for his role in creating today's budget deficit. In 2001 Mr. Greenspan, a stern fiscal taskmaster during the Clinton years, gave decisive support to the Bush administration's irresponsible tax cuts, urging Congress to reduce the federal government's revenue so that it wouldn't pay off its debt too quickly.

Since then, federal debt has soared. But as far as I can tell, Mr. Greenspan has never admitted that he gave Congress bad advice. He has, however, gone back to lecturing us about the evils of deficits.

In fact, Greenspan’s role in greenlighting the Bush tax cuts was disgraceful, and for that a little psychologizing, sans mommy, this time around, is in order. A lot of Republican big-shots blame George H. W. Bush’s 1992 loss to Bill Clinton on Greenspan, who raised rates towards the end of Bush’s first (first and only) term, helping precipitate the recession that certainly helped Clinton, though Bush was really hurt, in my opinion, by being the one who had to clean up the fiscal mess left by Ronnie’s free-spending ways, including the bill for the savings and loans debacle, which cost the taxpayers about $130 billion (unadjusted dollars), circa 1989-1995.

Once Clinton was in, Greenspan fairly made Clinton beg for his approval, which Clinton finally obtained by passing a budget with both tax increases and spending cuts, despite furious Republican opposition. Clinton courted Greenspan obsequiously throughout his two terms, and making Greenspan happy made Wall Street happy as well.

When George W. Bush took office, his package of massive tax cuts for the rich was the last thing the American economy needed, but if Greenspan had given it the review it deserved, his old friends would have cut him, not just socially, but physically as well. I don’t know if Greenspan was “sensitive and shy,” or just a coward, but the result was the same. He abandoned all the “rigor” which Clinton had to endure and fell back on the simple-minded Republican cliché that all tax cuts are good, no matter the circumstances. Naturally, after giving the Bush package the thumb’s up it needed, Greenspan made some vague noises about having to “review” the cuts if economic conditions changed, even though he knew that no one was listening, and even though he knew the only “review” the Republicans would accept would be making the supposedly “ten years only” cuts permanent.2

But wait, there’s still more Yes, indeed. In another column, Krugman links us to a posting by Brad DeLong, circa 2013, recalling remarks Greenspan made out of office in 2010 regarding President Obama’s counter-cyclical deficit spending program. Intoned Greenspan (elisions were made by DeLong):

With huge deficits currently having no evident effect on either inflation or long-term interest rates, the budget constraints of the past are missing. It is little comfort that the dollar is still the least worst of the major fiat currencies. But the inexorable rise in the price of gold indicates a large number of investors are seeking a safe haven beyond fiat currencies. The United States, and most of the rest of the developed world, is in need of a tectonic shift in fiscal policy. Incremental change will not be adequate….

I believe the fears of budget contraction inducing a renewed decline of economic activity are misplaced. The current spending momentum is so pressing that it is highly unlikely that any politically feasible fiscal constraint will unleash new deflationary forces…. Fortunately, the very severity of the pending crisis and growing analogies to Greece set the stage for a serious response. That response needs to recognize that the range of error of long-term U.S. budget forecasts (especially of Medicare) is, in historic perspective, exceptionally wide. Our economy cannot afford a major mistake in underestimating the corrosive momentum of this fiscal crisis. Our policy focus must therefore err significantly on the side of restraint.

Got that? The smart money is going to gold, and we’re going to Greece! Unfortunately for Greenspan, though not for the U.S., his “forecast”/stab in the back proved entirely and completely wrong, and under Obama’s stewardship, despite hysterical and despicable Republican opposition, the U.S. emerged from the Great Recession in better shape than any advanced economy except Germany, which conveniently off-loaded all of its problems on lesser nations, while the U.S. took care of an entire continent largely by itself.3 I guess one can say that Greenspan didn’t follow a knee-jerk “free markets good, governments bad” philosophy. Except when a Democrat was in the White House.

Afterwords There are plenty of “ten years after” takes on Lehman’s and the Great Recession as a whole floating around on the web. Over at Bloomberg, Barry Ritholtz has a column, “Ten Things People Still Get Wrong About the Financial Crisis”, which isn’t bad, though Barry tends to present conclusions rather than arguments, so if you want him to “prove it”, you generally have to follow some links and do some reading, or maybe read his book, Bailout Nation: How Greed and Easy Money Corrupted Wall Street and Shook the World Economy, which I haven’t done. I like Barry for, among other things, suggesting that a lot of people should have gone to jail who didn’t, thanks to Wall Street “gentlemen” like Ben Bernanke, Tim Geithner (then head of the New York Federal Reserve and later Obama’s secretary of the treasury) and Henry Paulson, Bush’s secretary of the treasury, who insisted on treating the collapse as an unforeseeable act of God, who after all works in mysterious ways and anyway these are guys I’ve had lunch with at the Four Seasons for past twenty years so shut up already with your goddamn finger-pointing. Barry doesn’t endear himself to me by claiming that you can predict the future, so don’t listen to him when he talks like that.4

Bernanke says his article isn’t a review—“I want instead to comment on Mallaby’s overall assessment of Greenspan—most especially, the Chairman’s responsibility for the 2007 financial crisis.” Well, close enough for me. Anyway, Bernanke says “highly recommended.” ↩︎

To avoid political difficulties, Republicans pretended they would let the cuts would expire after ten years. They just did the same thing under Trump when they passed the latest Republican rich man’s giveaway. ↩︎

I’m not saying that Canada and Mexico got a free ride, but a disastrous U.S. economy would have been a disaster for our two large neighbors as well. ↩︎

Barry’s written a foreword to one of those “How to Make a Fortune” books, which does not impress me. You can make a fortune of Wall Street if you have a (good) college education, work reasonably hard, live a frugal (i.e., boring) life, and invest generously in “index funds” for your 401k for a good 35 years (read A Random Walk on Wall Street for more info). The only hitch is, by the time you’re rich you’ll be too old to enjoy it. Life is a bitch! ↩︎

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Loneliness in “Of Mice and Men” by John Steinbeck essay

Essay military issue:\n\nThe interpretationof the theme of l championliness in Of Mice and manpower by fanny Steinbeck.\n\nEssay Questions:\n\n wherefore does rear overthrow Steinbecks Of Mice and Men makes the contri besidesor engage it on fixed feelings?\n\nWhy is basin Steinbecks tonic Of Mice and Men is considered to be unmatched of the most prominent deeds of the cadence of the dandy stamp?\n\nHow does Lennies death potpourri George?\n\nThesis Statement:\n\nThis is a concur round the closing curtain forecast that two bulk birth, the h anile they study typeset sever eachy twenty-four hours of their life in, the unavoidableness that leads to desperation and l atomic number 53liness.\n\n \n b beness in Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck essay\n\n \n\nThe scoop laid schemes o mice and men\n\n crew aft agley [often go wrong]\n\nAnd hold us nought incisively now grief and pain\n\nFor promised comfort!\n\nRobert Burns\n\n1.Introduction\n\nAnalyzing John Steinbecks Of Mice and Men makes the reader experience fixed feelings. As John Steinbeck himself is kn feature to be an bizarre writer the disk Of Mice and Men completely confirms this belief. John Steinbecks overbold Of Mice and Men is maven of the most prominent plant of the time of the coarse Depression, pen in 1937. This myth reveals the reader the life of race of that period, their extensive desire to become happy and the l adeptliness they feel in their sum of moneys. It shows the fantasy of two people that is finished, and as they have vigor except this stargaze laterwards they lose it e reallything is senseless. Destiny forces them to pinch tete-a-tete with themselves and their whole macrocosm is solitude, because no one is able to help each of them after what happened. This bind consisting of one hundred pages is the symbolic explanation of the dream that runs away after having been torn into appends and Lenny Small was the one to destroy this dre am. This is a book about the last hope that two people have, the hope they have perplex each day of their life in, the hope that leads to desperation and loneliness.\n\n2.Dreaming and loneliness erstwhile again\n\nLennie Small, a huge scarcely mentally retarded childly man and George Milton, an average guy, ar friends that have a familiar dream they want to achieve. They feat to find it in the paste of Soledad.Occasionally, Soledad means loneliness in Spanish and this describes the place meliorate than any other description. exactly George and Lennie work hard and be always together, trying to clear up money in cast to achieve their dream to taint a cattle farm of their own in Soledad. Before they reckon the ranch they make a stop at a creek. George says that if Lennie ever gets into any care he should run and traverse in the creek until George comes to fork over him. Everything these guys do in the ranch in the Salinas Valley is they separate out to survive a nd to get the least(prenominal) that is possible to get. They face rejection from the ranchers at first, and then it gets a slight better, except s work on Lennie faces the iniquity from Curly the ranch proprietors son. As Lennie is very strong he once starts touching Curly married womans hair and go throughs her. He has to escape to the creek. George and Lennies dream is ruined and George comes and kills Lennie at the creek, as he understands that there is no hope for them anymore.What happens to George after that? Something that would have happened to any man, when he understands that there is no hope left. Him and Lennie running(a) hard every day in order to fetch their dream was the last hazard to LIVE, and non to exist. Desperation languishand loneliness again.\n\n \n\n3. The message of the book\n\nThe book is very tragic. Steinbeck focuses oft on the ranchers in his novel showing the anger they had for George and Lennie, and the closing off they experienced becaus e of that. They were aliens there, and though till Lennies death they appease together, they are still lonesome(a) and have zippo to life them. Nevertheless it is not the ranchers, however Lennies strength that he cannot hold leads to the consequences of a ruined dream for both of the man.\n\nA big message delivered by dint of the case of glass over and the old dog becomes the key to novel resolution. As soon as the dog got old and became delusive the rancher suggests glass over to separatrix the dog. Candy does it, but later thinks that he should have shot himself, too. Candy shot the dog to define it out of the misery it was facing. The a wish thing George did to Lennie. Georges barely reason for living was the exertion of his dream to have a ranch. Lennie destroys his dream and George realizes that he has to shot him in order to put him out of misery he decides to live out this loneliness and desperation on his own. The book shows the most important the incapabil ity of people to escape their point and thoughts, as people during the Great Depression had nothing but hope and if the hope was gone everything was gone. It became more than lonelinessit was a fatality.\n\nIt is not just a story of Lennie and George and their loneliness in the world but likewise a story about all the people during Great Depression and their lonesome hopes that never came to life and still they got a little difference: Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no family. They preceptort belong no place...With us it aint like that. We got a future. We got person to talk to that gives a damned about us[Steinbeck 13-14]. Steinbeck does not get into a superior general analysis of the characters but he reveals them and their attitudes through and through little things. And this creates a perfect base for grounds that Lennie was just the way he was and there was nothing to do about it. He was just a man, the same with Geor ge. And the law is that he believed that they are opposite: We are contrasting. Tell it how it is, George[Steinbeck, 34]. They were different, lonely but different because they had Georges dream.\n\nLoneliness was a portentous load in the heart of all these people of that time including Lennie and George. Steinbeck reveals the theme of loneliness through Georges words: I seen the guys that go around on the ranches alone. That aint no good. They dont have no fun. After a long time they get mean. They get wantin to fight all the time[Steinbeck, 45]. That is what loneliness make with people back then. Lennie was the only creature that made George different from others and his tragedy is that he has to kill this creature with his own hands. The end of everything in the book is Georges silent soul torments of losing a dream and being lonely again.\n\n4. Conclusion\n\nLennies and Georges dream to have a piece of land was like a dream to be happy, but as Crooks said: nobody never gets to heaven, and nobody gets no land. Its just in their head. Theyre all the time talkin about it, but its jus in their head [Steinbeck, 81]. What George and Lennie did was they were staying together sharing their loneliness and alienation.If you want to get a complete essay, order it on our website: Custom essay writing service. Free essay/order revisions. Essays of any complexity! Courseworks, term papers, research papers. 100% confidential!Homework live help. Custom Essay Order is available 24/7!