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ialwaysknewyouwerepunk · 2 years

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they wear flowers on their chest

for @mc5ftjillo, who inspired this post

so, as many may have noticed, our two favorite queers have been in the habit of showing off the flowers they really like. most significantly, we have louis putting flowers on his chest with his very own fashion line, 28 programme, and harry wearing a pair of coats in the late night talking mv where the boutonnières almost cover their entire fronts. this is - obviously - not random, but it really holds more significance than i even realised at first glance.

from the expo at the V&A museum: fashioning masculinities

history of the boutonnière

boutonnière, or flowers in the lapel of a suit/coat jacket

origin: (probably, likely) the war on roses: two neighboring houses in the north of england, fighting for the throne - wearing a red (house of lancaster) or white (house of york) rose on their chest to show off which house they belonged to

prince albert supposedly started the modern trend of the lapel flower, after queen victoria offered him flowers on their first wedding anniversary, which he subsequently put on display in his jacket. since there were photos made of the event, which was a rarity back then, the gesture spread as a trend

from then on, and especially through the years, it was a sign of a dressed-up gent. formal, masculine, and a show of love - wiki: symbol of good breeding, elegance, and sophistication

green carnation, oscar wilde:

oscar wilde, a famously queer writer, made a statement by wearing a green carnation in his lapel at the premiere of his play, Lady Windermere’s Fan, in 1892, urging his friends to do the same. it instantly became a symbol for solidarity among queer men, for men who loved other men

‘unnatural’ color for a flower:

“Blooming Haus speculates this may have been Oscar Wilde's way of poking fun at the authorities, using an unnatural green flower to mock the idea that, at the time, love between two men was seen as "unnatural.”

queerness of flowers, flowers symbolising queerness

flowers have borrowed their names and meanings to the queer community, for all sorts of nicknames or secret codes. like the slang ‘pansy’ for a gay man, which is just a little flower, or how a violet is an ancient lesbian symbol. (or how “evening botanist” is an old school term for a gay man which i think is just the funniest thing ever)

rose

love, esp love between gay men in japan

key part of identity! f.e. Pokémon character James is often shown carrying a rose, which is an established symbol in anime to signify a character is gay

lily

in japan, a popular genre of manga is known as yuri, revolving around romantic relationships between women

depictions of female genitalia

“Both the Greeks and Romans held the Lily in very high regard, including it in dozens of their religious myths and breeding the plants extensively. Alchemists considered it a lunar plant with feminine qualities, while the Lily is in high demand in China for weddings because its name sounds like the start of a phrase wishing the couple a happy union for a century.”

AND THEN WE COMBINE WHAT WE HAVE LEARNED

louis came on stage at the afhf last summer with a custom-made jersey, designed by the man himself, which was pretty much covered in flowers. a flower on his right pec, a bouquet on his left.

source

NOW what’s super interesting here, is that louis is channelling the origins of the boutonnière with the abstract flower symbol he’s adopted as the 28 official programme logo!! it’s a yorkshire rose, the emblem of his home county. AND THEN on the OTHER SIDE he’s got ROSES, a whole bouquet of them, a universal symbol of romance, as well as that of a gay man. with the added fuck-me-up detail that the fabric of the jersey is green, the typical color of a certain someone we know, making the flowers green. just like the green coronation. ok. ok.

then we have harry, who has used lilies before, in the photo shoot for the fine line cover art and booklet, where it was used to symbolise rebirth and femininity. now, in the late night talking mv, he wore the lilies on his chest, first in the museum scene, which flows into the date scene, as well as at the end, where he officiates a wedding and then falls from the sky.

it’s completely meant to fit into the tradition of the boutonnière. harry is conveying the message: i am queer, and i am wearing it proudly on my chest. it’s not subtle, is it? it’s meant as a clear symbol for those who understand, just like oscar wilde and his friends wore the green carnation. it’s so beautiful that it’s the lily on his chest, causing the flower to be a theme in his art, of rebirth and femininity.

when you look at when exactly harry is wearing the boutonnières in the mv, it’s just...?? in the museum, he’s the art exhibit. he’s wearing the lilies openly on his chest. then, he’s on a private date with a man. his napkin is even pushed to the side a little to show off the flowers in full. then, when he’s officiating a queer wedding, he’s wearing them, and then he seems to be shot from the sky by lightning, and he’s falling through the sky on his bed. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? harry’s gayness, or the way he’s shown it with messages, isn’t hidden. irl he walks around with a pride enamel pin. he’s being scrutinised, studied, and he’s still not hiding it. then he’s in private, celebrating love, and he shows it, loud and proud. it reminds me of how harry’s stated in the past that he has shown us who he is. that he’s said it in enough ways. he hides in plain sight, just like oscar wilde and his entourage. general society knew what the green flower meant, but it remained something unspoken. now, any casual observer could see that harry is at least not straight. and yet, still, you are deemed straight until stated otherwise.

so what does one do, when one can’t say it out loud? a bit of queer signalling. with flowers.

#my posts #they wear flowers on their chest #boutonnières #queer botany #that expo at the v&a changed me man #can't stop thinking about it #and now i'm very pleased i have it out here in a post #hit me with the theories about why harry is wearing the flowers in those specific scenes in the mv #i haven't sorted my own thoughts yet #but it's a start #and louis and that green fucking jersey i will never be okay

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bitter69uk · 8 months

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Who’s up for some “diva worship”? My quick review of the Diva exhibit at The Victoria & Albert Museum (my boyfriend Pal, our friend Fenella and I went on Sunday 27 August). The first floor (featuring early divas of opera, stage, silent cinema and golden age Hollywood) is a treasure trove. Things fall apart somewhat on the second floor, which brings us to the present day and the concept of “diva” seems to stretch to any random modern female pop star with a vaguely “empowering” message (or at least the ones who’ve loaned outfits for the exhibit. Let’s be grateful at least that Taylor Swift and Dua Lipa weren’t included. I wonder if the V&A regrets the emphasis on Lizzo given her current blizzard of bad publicity and legal woes). We could all bicker about our personal favourites not being featured, but it feels like glaring omissions that Marlene Dietrich and Madonna are barely represented (surely the Cinema Museum in Berlin could have loaned a Dietrich costume from their permanent collection?). And Eartha Kitt is represented by just an album cover! If they’re going to declare Elton John, Freddie Mercury, Prince and Lil Nas x honorary “male divas”, then why not include Divine, who was a diva of both cult cinema and hi-NRG disco?

Conclusion: The Diva exhibit is enjoyable but ultimately superficial and best approached as “eye candy”. It’s on until 7 April 2024.

Pictured: the “flame dress” Bob Mackie - maestro of the strategically placed sequin! - designed for soul queen Tina Turner to wear onstage in 1977. Want to see more? Here's my lavishly-illustrated scene report!

#diva exhibit #diva #divas #v&a museum #victoria and albert museum #bob mackie #tina turner #kitsch #gay icons #kween #fierce #sequins #lobotomy room #london

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minetteskvareninova · 21 days

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💕

Well, first off, this is the first ask I got that from outside our little Magnificent Century circle, and I am a little puzzled, because like. I didn't specify the question has to be about Magnificent Century, but like... Is OP even a Magnificent Century fan? I am also a bit unsure of what unpopular means here, like is it a rarepair, or a pair that gets a lot of flack from the fandom? Anyway, I am involved in the Magnificent Century fandom more than any other, so I am going to pick a couple from that show that I feel like is talked about more negatively than not, even if it isn't necessarily trashed.

💕: What is an unpopular ship that you like?

I had to really think about this one. And you know what? I am going to cheat and pick a couple from Kösem. Specifically, Fahriye and Mehmet Giray. I am the biggest Kösem season 1 evangelist in this fandom and Fahriye's subplot is one of the reasons why, like honestly it's just so good??? Sure, part of their appeal is the way they grew apart and just as a basic "secret love of a princess", they weren't very impressive. But still. Their story is so good and I wish people talked about it more.

I am also going to say something super controversial: Bayezit x Huricihan isn't that bad. I don't love it either, and still like Huricihan better with Cihangir, but on their own, they are fine. Sometimes even cute. And yes, I know they are cousin, but come the fuck on. It's 16th century Ottoman Empire. We kinda accept a certain level of values dissonance when it comes to pairing sultans with their literal slaves, why not here? Also, I am a vicbert shipper, which if you didn't know is a pairing from ITV Victoria that includes the show version of queen Victoria and prince consort Albert. Who both in show and irl were first cousins. Like they have a whole ass common uncle running around (Leopold I. of Belgium; well, he's technically Albert's father, because in the show-verse he banged his brother's wife, it's wild) and shit. I, resident of a luxurious palace from the finest crystal glass, am sure as fuck not going to throw stones around here, 'kay?

#magnificent century #answer asks

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queenalexandraofdenmark · 4 months

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The 16 year old Princess Alexandra of Denmark posing for a photo standing turned right, next to a chair, wearing a pale coloured dress, with frilled sleeves, slightly off shoulder, with ringlet curls in her hair, and her hands clasped. Around the time when Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were choosing a potential bride for their son, Albert Edward, "Bertie".

(X)

#queen alexandra #alexandra of denmark #victorian era #victorian photography #rare photo #1860s #1861

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timmymyluv · 2 years

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act five.

of the let others wage war-you, happy child, marry.

future tsar/tsesarevich!timothee chalamet x princess!reader x romanov prince!louis partridge

series masterlist

act i

act ii

act iii

act iv

main masterlist

Summary: In foreign land, you travel with your family to England to celebrate your sister Alexandra's marriage to the Prince of Wales. Facing the daunting reality of growing up, and losing your family spread across the continent as your royal profile rises, you learn power comes at a price.

Notes: and finally I'm writing again! I hit a little writing rut and was afraid this would be a filler chapter but every chapter is important and drives the story forward. I hope you enjoy it and please comment & send lots of love and feedback. Thanks!

“—it seemed as if she could dream her life away in such luxury of pensiveness, in which she made her present all in all, from not daring to think of the past, or wishing to contemplate the future.”

― Elizabeth Gaskell, North & South

Crowds cheered as they assembled in droves by the dock, a cloudy, gloomy early September day as your family embarked on the royal yacht the English sent on their behalf called the Victoria and Albert. Hearing your national anthem sung so proudly, you watched Alexandra tear up, moved by the patriotism of her people, and the anguish and grief of leaving her home country for her marriage.

As the boat left the coast, you all waved to your people before you began your hour long journey across the Baltic Sea, then crossing into the English Channel to make your way to your sister’s new motherland.

Feeling her frail, boney hands in yours, you clutch her tight towards yourself, an affirming, comforting squeeze to appease her nerves to the best of her ability. A gentle smile towards her, and she cannot help but mirror your expression, at ease knowing you were there for her.

Falling asleep in her arms, the flickering moonlight peaking through the blinds until you had arrived at Kent in broad daylight. The sun had risen, much earlier than it usually did in Copenhagen or even as far as Aarhus, and the crowds that gathered easily outnumbered the Danes back home. No wonder they said the sun never set in the British Empire, for in every corner of the Earth, touched their influence.

The weeks leading up to the toned down matrimonial service in St. George’s Chapel, cramped and paltry rather than the palatial Westminster Abbey out of the queen’s desire to remain in mourning for her late husband the Prince, and keep it an intimate, brief affair with only a minimal guest list and the most important individuals present only.

Whenever you were not busy socializing with the guests as part of the bride’s side of the family, ceremonial teas, brunches, dinners, fundraisers, rehearsals, dress fittings, you would drown yourself in your ink and parchment.

While your fiance explored Italy, Greece, before making his way to France to join his mother, you wrote to him daily, reaffirming the love you had for him even from a distance, worryingly asking if he still felt the same even after time apart, which he was glad to silence and quiet with his sweet, honeyed promises.

"You tell me that I hold the happiness of a certain person in my hands", she wrote to Timothee. "If that is true, then his happiness is assured forever… this person loves me tenderly, and I love him in return, and that will be my happiness… you can be certain that I love you more than I ever can say"

Setting aside your quilt and roll of parchment by your bedside, you tuck into bed, feeling your warm sheets against your feet and blow the candle before you fall into the sweet embrace of slumber and nightly rest.

…

Blurry visions that you struggle to make sight off plague your peripheral vision. Arrived in haste with tired feet, you are drawn into a crowded, drawy bedroom in an unknown location, surrounded by pitiful murmurings, and ravaged sobbing.

The hastily yet pompously dressed congregations parts for you to make through, the dim light shining down of what appears to be your dear Timothee in his bed, heavily weakened in his pale complexion, teary eyes, and swollen phalanges, looking dreamlike and angelic in his off-white cream blouse stained with sweat and droplets of blood from his throat and nose.

Beside him stood his mother, looking frailer than ever, barely hanging on in her angular, emaciated form, tight fingers gripping on her son so taut as if he was to fade away right in front of her.

Across from Timothee on the bed that stood in the centre of the bedroom was his younger brother, the Grand Duke Alexander, tall and muscular as he crouched down and wept into his brother’s shoulder with no restraint.

Hearing you approach with hesitant footsteps, both mother and son look up at you with mirroring images of dismal grief and wracked desperation. In his blissful serenity, intoxicated by the morphine and painkillers prescribed hopelessly by his throng of doctors that gathered from all over Europe, Timothee manages a faint, yet reassured beam.

“How beautiful is she my Dagmar, right Mother?” He croaks, and as if on cue, his mother bursts into screeched wailing into her son’s arms.

Feeling your own tears brim, you shake your head profusely, in denial that he was slipping from your grasp, that life was to leave him.

“We have done all that we could, Your Royal Highness. We had mistaken his symptoms of fatigue, back pain and sensitivity to light for rheumatism but it was not so. He is suffering with cerebro-spinal meningitis, and we had taken too long to discover it that it has spread up to His Imperial Highness’ brain and spine. We are truly sorry, Your Royal Highness.” The jittery, trembling voice of the grey-haired, eccentrically mustached doctor only felt like daggers that went through your heart.

Taking your hand into his, as unsteady and frigid as it was to your sweltering own in the height of the summer heat, Timothee gathers all of his strength to join your palms into his brother Alexander’s much larger hands, settling it adamantly against his chest, skeletal and bony from the weight he had lost in rapid succession.

“Pug, Sasha- when I am to pass, you must fulfill not only my responsibility to Russia, as Tsar- but to my Dagmar. You must take her hand when I am no longer on this Earth. You must-promise me.” He whispers before he is interrupted by a gruesome cough, his phlegm laced with nasty infected mucous and porous blood.

Sasha defiantly refuses incipiently, begging implorably and insisting that his episode of illness will pass, that he will live to walk down the aisle to make you his wife, and rule Imperial Russia as Tsar, but his hope dimmed by the second.

As Timothee makes his last breath, a single tear flows down his cheeks, and you are overwhelmed with grief that weighs on your chest and entire being. Embracing him so securely your knuckles turned white and your chest pressed firmly against him as you vociferously wail above the similar sounds of the flock that huddled around you.

His mother Maria Alexandrovna and the silhouette of who appears to be his father the Tsar Alexander II, whom you have barely met and only recognized from portraits and sparse carte-de-visites, clamber to clumsily pull you off from his lifeless form, overcome with their own grief.

The seconds become hours, then days, to weeks and months that fade into one that time becomes incomprehensible. Falling in and out of sleep as you are in a daze that cannot be broken, rotting and melting into your bedsheets, refusing to wear anything but black, clothes fitting too loosely as you become so slim, so frail in your mourning that everyone in the royal circle worried about you. If only you could wake up from such bereavement, such melancholy-

You abruptly sit up from your bed, drenched in sweat and salty tears that trickled down into your collarbones and chest. Your laced chemise clung to your skin as you had dramatically pushed away your jacquard duvet in your restless dream.

Hearing your heartbeat thump so loudly against your ribcage that you can hear it vibrate against your eardrums, you wipe away the tears and perspiration that smothered you in such a dreadful, compelling dream that was all of your fears coming to the surface.

Calming and soothing yourself as you wrapped your arms around your knees, reminding yourself that it was only a dream, only your subconscious that has been overwhelmed and exhausted from the events that had been preoccupying you in a foreign country that gave you an insight on the future that could await you.

Striding away covertly into the quiet, yet well furnished kitchen in the cottage your family was to remain in before your return to Copenhagen, Dagmar reaches shakily for a glass bottle of water and pours into a small glass for herself.

Gulping, pouring the cool water down your parched throat gives you slight but much needed relief from your state of desperation and skittishness. Pondering in the darkness with nothing but a miniature lighted candle in hand, you bite away trivial tears before you pour another glass for yourself.

You do your best to return back to slumber in your mattress, but it is never to the same depth and comfort as before your dream. You fear you will never sleep the same again, if your dreams could become so severe, so ghastly that it will spill into your waking life.

…

Queen Victoria requests for your presence after an early supper and horseback riding race down the track in Balmoral Castle.

You winced as you falteringly trodded towards her office accompanied by a trusted Scottish companion of hers who had been personally sent for your company and speak with her alone.

Ruffling your unruly curls that had been flying freely as you rid your stallion and beat the Queen’s second son Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh closely, before being scolded by one of the senior officials present for your lack of protocol due to your dearth of a riding hat that proper ladies, and more especially, royal princesses were supposed to adorn.

“Her Royal Highness Princess Dagmar of Denmark, Your Majesty.” The royal herald announces your arrival as you stand rigidly by the gold engraved cream door, fiddling with the smooth cloth of your hoop skirt anxiously.

“Let her in, and shut the door. I would like to speak to her alone.” As her quiet yet profoundly dignified voice echoes in the room, her thrush of servants and maids leave the room promptly, before the door is shut emphatically behind you.

“Come my dear, you stand there as if I would bite you.” Queen Victoria jests, as you stare at her with round, frightened eyes before you curtsey hastily and make your way across her oak desk.

“Your Majesty, it is an honour to be in your presence and to be requested for a private audience with our dear Queen. to what do I owe the pleasure?” Looking up from your feet, you glance politely before you speak in a rehearsed tone, your hands folded closely in front of you.

A glimmer passes by the elderly Queen’s ostensibly expressionless round, plump face, her silver and grey hair sticking through her signature onyx hued velvet fascinator pinned to the top of her head. You gulp nervously as if you were scolded as a child once more.

“It has come to my attention that my second son, Alfred, has claimed you as an object of his fancy. He finds you very pleasing, pretty and fascinating enough that he would very much desire to request for your hand in marriage. I am not opposed to such a match, as much as I do not fondly look forward to another Danish match in our family. However, it would work fabulously well in which you could live in a household close to your sister.” She challenges you almost pointedly, and you balance in your head how to manage not to offend such a demanding, prideful yet protective matron figure.

“I am warmly grateful that Her Majesty believes me to be as equally worthy a marriage prospect into the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha as my dear sister Alexandra, but I regret to inform you that I am already bethrothed to the Tsesarevich Timothee of Russia, Your Majesty.” You reply as a matter-of-factly.

Staring at you with a knowing smirk, as if you had passed the test she had set up so dramatically for you to possibly falter, but impressed with your wit in the abridged bantering she had with you.

“I am aware of those events, and I am sure Alred is no fool to be unaware either, but you must answer me honestly. If the Tsesarevich had not asked for your hand in marriage, would you have considered his?”

You pause, deep in thought as you weighed your probabilities. Alfred was not anything close to a looker, sharing the same hooded, heavy blue Saxe-Coburg saucers that looked almost forlorn, permanently sleepy. He had been kind and slightly teasing in the faint encounter you had with him in the tracks, but not enough to judge his character accurately.

“I would always take the time in getting to know and familiarize myself with his character before I would accept any proposals of matrimony, Your Majesty. I will speak genuinely in that I do not believe in a love in first sight, especially for a minor Princess of my standing, where marriage can make or break my future. His Royal Highness is a great man who will do many great things, but I believe that I am not fated to be his lifelong companion and he will meet his match in due time. I adore and cherish my sister entirely, fully, more than myself but I do not wish to live under her shadow either, your Majesty.”

“You prideful, insolent girl! I had always known you were more intelligent, more spirited than your sister, but never to this degree.” You gulped nervously as her voice raised in pitch, leaving you aghast how such a petite woman could control the room with so little on her part.

“I admire your strength, little Dagmar. You will need that vitality, that backbone if you are to survive in the chaos that is Imperial Russia and all that is Saint Petersburg. You remind me of myself in my youth, that drive, that determination to break out of the family that had coddled and sheltered you. I pity, no- I fear the man who is to marry you, dear. You are a woman that cannot be tamed, cannot be controlled.” Queen Victoria smiles beratingly with a slight chuckle at you, shaking her head and you cannot help but mirror her grin.

…

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sl-newsie · 5 months

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Chag Sameach! (Happy Holiday!) (Davey Jacobs x OC) *Holiday Special* 🕯️

Summary: Davey asks his girlfriend to spend Hanukkah with him, but she doesn’t know what to expect. (Takes place a year after the strike. I do not take credit for this knowledge of Hanukkah, and would like to acknowledge the History Channel for the fascinating history about this wonderful holiday!)

“Davey, are you sure it’s ok?” I ask for what seems like the 50 millionth time.

“Like I said before, yes!” The dark-haired newsie rubs his forehead. “Helen, you’re always welcome at our house. You know that.”

I give a heavy sigh as we trudge through the thickening snow. “I know, but this is Hanukkah! I’m not Jewish, I should go home. This is your time with your family, I don’t wanna get in the way.”

But Davey ignores me and keeps dragging me closer to his parents’ apartment. “Yeah, this is Hanukkah. A time to spend with family," he pauses and gives me a sincere look. “And friends. You’re practically family to us, Helen. You will never be in the way. Now come on! Everyone’s waiting!”

I’ve known David Jacobs for nearly a whole year ever since we ran into each other. Literally, he was rushing to catch up with the odda newsies and we both crashed! Since then we’ve become very close, and been seeing each other for the past month. The Jacobs basically adopted me! Davey is everything that makes up for what I’m not, such as being organized. We both love books, but he likes academic works while I prefer poetry. Davey’s mentioned Hanukkah to me before, but this year he really wants me to celebrate with him.

By now we’re at the doorstep and Davey all but pushes me inside as if he’s afraid I might disappear. Inside, all the Jacobs are buzzing around with friendly smiles, and a new delicious aroma fills the air.

“God Davey, what is that?” I take a deep breath.

“Those would be latkes!” Sarah announces as she hurries over with a tray of what looks like pancakes. “That’s Yiddish for potato pancakes. We also have cheese blintzes! Go on, try some!”

I thank her and select a tasty-looking latke, and when I bite into it it’s as if I’ve been deep fried in happiness.

“These are fantastic! Davey, you didn’t tell me Hanukkah food was so good!”

He chuckles and removes his newsie cap to place it on the rack. “It’s customary in some Jewish households to eat dairy foods in memory of Judith, who tempted General Holofernes with dairy foods and then lured him to his death to save the Jewish nation,” he explains.

“Is that Helen?” I hear someone shout from the odda room. In a blinding flash, Les races in and nearly topples me over in a tight hug. “You came! Davey promised you’d be here! This is gonna be the best Hanukkah ever!”

At the mention of this, flustered Davey walks off to join his father in the living room while Sarah drags Les away to the kitchen. “Come on, Les. Leave the two alone. You can help me with the sufganiyot!”

I decide to follow Davey and get a warm welcome from his father.

“Helen! Chag sameach, happy holiday! So glad you could make it!” The kind man smiles.

He walks off to help the others and give Davey and me some privacy, so I go sit down next to him by the window, which holds a decorative candle display.

“Is this the menorah you keep telling me about?”

He tries to rub the blush from his cheeks and nods. “Yeah. On each of the holiday’s eight nights, another candle is added to the menorah after sundown. The center candle, called the shamash, is used to light the others. Families pass menorahs from generation to generation.”

I take a moment to stare in awe at the humble but still magical menorah. “Wow, Davey…. It’s so special how you’ve all got these wonderful traditions. I wish my family had a special tradition for Christmas.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “You still have Christmas trees.”

I shake my head. “Only because my family’s German. They’ve only become popular thanks to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. It’s not the same. You guys have traditions that have been passed for centuries. Christmas trees have nothing to do with the birth of Jesus, or any other religious miracle.”

I expect Davey to agree and start questioning my odd Christian traditions, but instead he wraps an arm around me, pulls me closer, and rests his chin on top of my head.

“But you decorate your tree so well, ziskeit.”

His deep, kind voice makes me let out a calm breath. “Thanks, Davey. Aw, you remember how much I luv that Yiddish pet name.”

Davey smiles and presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m so glad to finally spend Hanukkah with you.”

“I forget, why isn’t it on the same date as last year?” I ask.

“Hanukkah, which means ‘dedication’ in Hebrew, begins on the 25th of Kislev on the Hebrew calendar and usually falls in November or December. The Hebrew calendar is timed according to the moon. Since this year is 1900, Hanukkah will last from Sunday, December 16, and end on Monday, December 24. Which means…” He pecks my cheek. “I can spend Christmas with you!”

“Davey! Have you told her about dreidels?” Les rushes back in from the kitchen carrying what looks like a small wooden top. “Another tradition we have Hanukkah is playing games,” he says excitedly as he spins the wooden top on the floor. “This is called a dreidel.”

“And…” Mrs. Jacobs enters the room carrying a blue parcel, followed by the rest of the family. “Like Christmas, Hanukkah represents a time to celebrate with friends.” She approaches me and hands me the package. “Happy Hanukkah, Helen!”

Immediately, I stand up and back away from the gathering Jacobs family.

“But- but I-”

“But nothing,” Mrs. Jacobs cuts me off. “We want you here to celebrate, because you’ve been so kind to our dear David.”

Davey waves off his mother’s gushing and takes my hand. “You know we won’t stop pestering until you open it. Happy Hanukkah, ziskeit!”

I gently lift open the top, and gasp when it reveals a pile of gold coins. The sight of the money leaves my mouth gaping, and when the Jacobs see my reaction they all laugh.

“It’s not real gold, Helen,” Mr. Jacobs explains. “The traditional gift for Hanukkah is gelt, which is Yiddish for ‘money.’ They’re wrapped chocolate coins that can be used when playing dreidel. According to legend, the coins we give on Hanukkah reflect similar coins that were minted to celebrate the victory of the Maccabee soldiers over the ancient Greeks.”

Thank goodness Davey noticed my confusion. “Maybe we should tell the full Hanukkah story to Helen.”

Les’ jaw drops. “You don’t know?”

“Les!” Sarah scolds as she slaps his shoulder. “Not everyone knows about Hanukkah.”

My sheepish smile says enough. “Actually, I’ve never read through the whole Bible. My family isn’t as religious, so we don’t have too many traditions.”

Davey takes my hand and gestures for me to sit with him on the couch. “Then you can be part of ours, ziskeit. To start off, Hanukkah commemorates when Jews rose up against their Greek-Syrian oppressors in the Maccabean Revolt. When the Jews had driven the Syrians out of Jerusalem, they rebuilt its altar and lit its menorah. The seven branches represented knowledge and creation and were meant to be kept burning every night.”

Mr. Jacobs tells the next part. “The Talmud, one of our primary sources of Jewish law, says that the Jews who took part in the rededication of the Second Temple witnessed what they believed to be a miracle. Even though there was only enough olive oil to keep the menorah’s candles burning for a single day, the flames continued flickering for eight nights. This is why Hanukkah is also called the Festival of Lights.”

Davey pulls me closer and, being surrounded by the cheery atmosphere and warm glow of the fire, the Jacobs’ acceptance of me into this special holiday makes my heart swell.

“Thank you, everyone. This means so much… I’m so lucky to have met you!” I can't stop smiling!

“You are always welcome to join us, Helen.” Mrs. Jacobs gives me a tight hug. “Now, let’s eat!”

We all gather around the table, and the scrumptious meal of brisket, latkes, kugel, and sufganiyot leaves me stuffed to the gills. After I finally get the hang of how to play dreidel, Davey leads me back to the menorah.

“So… what do you think?” He asks, slightly nervous.

“Davey, what do I think? This is wonderful!” I wrap my arms around him and his cute blush makes me fall in luv with him all over again. “This is so nice of all of you, thank you so much for inviting me!”

Davey lets out a relieved sigh. “If you like that, you’ll luv it more when the menorah’s lit up.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, I can’t wait! I bet it looks almost magical!”

“It absolutely does.” Davey leans in for a tender kiss. “Chag Chanukah Sameach, ziskeit. Happy Hanukkah.”

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