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letterboxd · 4 years

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Satisfied?

We examine what Letterboxd reviews of Hamilton reveal about the musical’s cultural currency in 2020.

In this absolutely insane year, when our love of movies feels helpless in the face of pandemic-induced economic collapse, some extremely good decisions are being made on behalf of audiences. Studio Ghibli on streaming platforms. Virtual screenings to support art house cinemas. Free streaming of many important films about Black experience. And: Disney+ releasing the filmed version of Hamilton: An American Musical—recorded at the Richard Rodgers Theater in 2016 with most of its original Broadway cast—a year ahead of schedule, on Independence Day weekend.

“Superlative pop art,” writes Wesley of the filmed musical. “Hamilton wears its influences and themes on its sleeve, and it’s all the better for it. Lin-Manuel Miranda and his team employ an unlikely cocktail of not only hip-hop and showtunes, but also jazz (‘What’d I Miss?’), British-Invasion pop-rock (‘You’ll Be Back’), folk music (‘Dear Theodosia’) and Shakespeare (‘Take a Break’) in service of developing an impressively vast array of themes. This is a testament to the power of writing, an immigrant narrative, a cautionary tale about ambition, a tragic family drama, and a reevaluation of who decides the narrative of history.”

2016 may only be a half-decade ago, but it feels like an eon in American political years. With theaters dark and America’s long record of racism under urgent scrutiny, the complex smash-hit lands back in the spotlight at an interesting time. Is Hamilton “the most offensive cultural artefact of the last decade”, as Lee writes? Or “timeless and wholly of the moment”, as Tom suggests? The answer, according to a deep read of your Letterboxd reviews, is “all of the above”.

First things first: why now?

Sophie has a theory:

“Disney executive: Hey we’re losing a lot of money because our parks are closed. How do we start making money again?

Other Disney executive: It might be nice, it might be nice… to get Hamilton on our side.”

Sure, business. Still, it’s historically unprecedented that a Broadway show of this caliber (a record-setting sixteen Tony nominations, eleven wins, plus a Grammy and a Pulitzer) would be filmed and released to the public while it’s still, in a Covid-free universe, capable of filling theaters every night. Will people stay away when Broadway reopens because they’re all Disney+’d out?

No chance, reckons Erika. “I’d still kill to see Hamilton live with any cast… I get why producers are afraid that these videos might hurt ticket sales, but I’m fucking ready to buy a ticket and fly to NY one day just to see as many shows as I can after watching this.”

Not every musical fan has the resources to travel, often waiting years for a touring version to come near their hometown. And even if you do live in a town with Hamilton, the ticket price is beyond many; a daily lottery the only way some of us get to go. So Holly-Beth speaks for many when she writes: “I entered the Hamilton lottery every day for almost two years but I never got to be in the room where it happens… however, this 4K recording of the original cast will do very nicely for now! Finally getting to see the context and performances after obsessing over the music for years was so, so satisfying.”

“Finally” is a common theme. Sydnie writes, “I love this musical with every fiber of my body and it was an extraordinary experience finally getting to watch it in Australia”. Flogic: “To finally be able to put the intended visuals to a soundtrack that I’ve had on repeat for such a long time: goosebumps for 160 minutes.” Newt Potter: “Now I fully understand people’s love for this masterpiece of a musical!”

I’ve got a small query for you.

Where’s the motherfucking swearing? Unsurprisingly, Disney+ comes with some limitations. For Hamilton, it’s the loss of a perfectly placed F-word.

“I know Disney is ‘too pure’ to let a couple of ‘fucks’ slip by,” writes Fernando, “but come on, it’s kind of distracting having the sound go out completely when they sing the very satisfying ‘Southern Motherfucking Democratic Republicans!’ line.”

Will agrees: “Disney cutting ‘motherfucking’ from ‘Washington on Your Side’ felt like sacrilege akin to Mickey Mouse taking an eyebrow pencil to the Mona Lisa.”

Nevertheless, sings Allison:

“Even tho Disney stripped the story of its f***s, Don’t think for a moment that it sucks.”

(Yes, she has a vegan alert for Hamilton.)

Does it throw away its shot?

The crew filmed two regular shows in front of live audiences, with additional audience-less sessions for a dolly, crane and Steadicam to capture specific numbers. The vast majority of you are satisfied. “It’s the most engaging and expertly crafted life filming I’ve seen since Stop Making Sense,” writes ArtPig. “The film does an incredible job of placing you right in the action. It feels like the best seat you could get in the theater. You can see the sweat and spit.”

“Translates perfectly onto the small screen,” agrees Ollie. “There’s a level of intimacy that feels hard to replicate in any other filmed production. We see those close ups, the passion and gusto behind every actor’s performance.”

“Shockingly cinematic for something filmed on such a small stage,” is Technerd’s succinct summary, while Paul praises director Thomas Kail: “He knows when to back away along with moving nearer when appropriate, and the choices always serve to govern the power and stamina of the performances.”

Though cast members’ voices were recorded on individual audio tracks, Noah had a few quibbles with the sound quality. “Some of the audio capture is off in the recording, sometimes voices being too soft or too loud. It’s not immersion breaking, but it is noticeable enough to irk me a little in pivotal moments. Some of the shot composition doesn’t fully work either. Of course nothing is going to be as good as seeing it in person.”

Robert, recalling another recent cinematic escapade of musical theater, lets his poetry do the talking:

“This will do for now until the true movie’s made, Though if Hooper directs, there’ll be an angry tirade.”

I think your pants look hot.

Hamilton fans have their cast favorites, but something about being able to see Jonathan Groff’s spittle and Leslie Odom Jr’s scowls in 4K has you losing it all over again. Several specific shout-outs we enjoyed:

“Daveed Diggs the Legend! Go watch Blindspotting (2018), it’s one of the best movies ever!” —Kyle

“It’s hard to believe anyone will ever top Leslie Odom Jr. as Aaron Burr. I already loved him from the original cast recording, but seeing his full performance in all its glory was just godly.” —Erika

“Thankful that it was made possible for me to view with such clarity the phenomenon that is Renée Elise Goldsberry and spectacular Phillipa Soo.” —Thea

“Daveed Diggs was electrifying and Jonathan Groff was absolutely hilarious. If they interacted together the stage would’ve combusted from the sheer will of their talent.” —Nick

This is not a game.

On one hand, the release of Hamilton is sweet relief for music theater nerds riding out the pandemic. A generation of kids knows every word by heart, rapping (this version of) American history like it’s no thing. On the other, the Obama-era musical already feels behind-the-times, even for many Hamilton lovers, and the filmed version has brought that into sharp focus.

“I listened to the OG cast album about 50 times when it came out, the production is about as good as I’d always hoped,” writes Josh. “Since then however there’s been a very important and broader reckoning with the failures of neoliberalism and the Obama years ([from] which this has to be the most emblematic piece of art) and for me personally a drifting further to the left that has resulted in a very different relationship with the material. So my feelings today are a bit more complicated.”

“Hamilton is extremely non-committal about its politics,” writes Sting. “It doesn’t examine much of what Hamilton dictated besides ‘he wants complete financial control of the country’ (which would sound like a fucking supervillain in any other context, including reality).”

That lack of political commitment, reckons Morgan, is what helped Hamilton as a musical become so popular: “It’s fun. It’s catchy. It interweaves trendy and socially relevant artistic tools to infer a subversive subtext, while simultaneously sanitizing and, at times, flat out fabricating the historical narrative and downplaying the brutality of the true origin story, for the sake of appeasing those in power. Classic Bill Shakespeare stuff.”

History has its eyes on you.

Much criticism lies with the fundamental storytelling decision to make a modern ruckus about America’s Founding Fathers, the men (including Alexander Hamilton) who in the late eighteenth century united the thirteen colonies and co-wrote the Constitution. Undisputed titans of history, they also have blood on their hands, and HoneyRose writes that the musical “glorifies these men, and paints them as self-sacrificing heroes, and honestly normalizes and validates slavery, as well as the behavior of slave owners.”

Stevie, who saw the Broadway production as well as the filmed version, confesses: “I’ve tried (I’ve really tried) to understand what makes people lose their minds over this but I’m still completely baffled by the hype… These were horrible men and a romanticism of them through song and dance just seems entirely misguided.”

Sean is not convinced that Hamilton is a hagiography. “I can’t imagine anyone watching all of this and thinking it paints a portrait of the Founding Fathers as anything other than childish, greedy, venal and self-aggrandizing.” Wesley agrees: “I don’t think Hamilton is trying to be a history lesson, so much as a lesson about how we think about history. It’s a compelling human story told in a revolutionary way.”

That “revolutionary way” is the musical’s central conceit: that of a cast-of-color playing the white founding fathers as they bumble towards independence. Journalist Jamelle Bouie, who regards the musical as “fun, exciting, innovative and, at points, genuinely moving,” wrestles with the “celebratory narrative in which the Framers are men to admire without reservation. Through its casting, it invites audiences of color to take ownership of that narrative, as if they should want to take ownership of a narrative that white-washes the history of the revolution under the guise of inclusion.”

It’s complicated for Matt, too: “It’s widely agreed upon that the show encapsulates the Obama era better than anything, how it coddles white liberals with a post-racial vision of history in a superficial sense, overlooking the insidious and oppressive systems that they benefit from (hearing the audience clap to ‘Immigrants, we get the job done’ unsettled me). Of course hopefully its legacy will be that it opened up more Broadway roles for POC. But I really think that the show doesn’t make Broadway more appealing and accessible to POC, it just makes hip hop more accessible to white people, a launching pad of course to listening to Watsky or something.

“No hate though to anyone that’s completely in love with this, it’s definitely worth seeing despite any hang ups.”

I wanna build something that’s gonna outlive me.

The story doesn’t end, just because the music does. Kai_Kenn has a suggestion: “I have been a part of discussions that dissect the culture that created Hamilton, as well as the culture that Hamilton created, and whether or not Hamilton appropriately addresses the modern issues [that] the cult following proposes it does.

“This is an ongoing discussion that I am trying to be an active listener in and, if you consider yourself to be a conscientious consumer of art, you should too.”

Noah is on board with that: “Reflecting on the past and focusing on the future are not two mutually exclusive actions. Both are a must, regardless of who you are or what you do. A five-star experience in a four-and-a-half-star film. I think that’s just fine.”

Related content

Want to see more of the key cast? Watch Daveed Diggs in ‘Blindspotting’; Renée Elise Goldsberry in ‘Waves’, Jonathan Groff repeat his role as Kristoff in ‘Frozen 2’, Lin-Manuel Miranda in ‘Mary Poppins Returns’, Leslie Odom Jr. in ‘Harriet’, Phillipa Soo in the forthcoming ‘Broken Hearts Gallery’, Christopher Jackson in the forthcoming ‘In The Heights’, Jasmine Cephas Jones in ‘The Photograph’, Okiereriete Onaodowan in ‘A Quiet Place II’ and Anthony Ramos in ‘Monsters and Men’ and ‘A Star is Born’.

Ways to support the Black Lives Matter movement

Official Black Lives Matter’s Resources

Teenagers that have ‘Hamilton’ stuff on their bedroom walls

Films where they mention ‘Hamilton’

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elcorhamletlive · 7 years

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series: Dream Daddy ship: Joseph Christiansen/Robert Small tags: Romance/Angst/Angst with a Happy Ending/Religious Conflict/Internalized Homophobia/Bottom!Robert

Part 1 of the Genesis series

I. your body is the one paradise that I wanna fly to

He was, first and foremost, a believer.

He knew a lot of ministers who struggled with their faith, and it was a constant topic among the Youths at their bible meetings. For Joseph, though, it was never a question. Even in his rebellious years, when he was trying to pretend the minister life wasn’t his inevitable future, he never doubted the existence of God. It wasn’t really something he could put in words. It just made sense, in his head. It was just part of the natural order of things to feel like there was someone there, watching over him, with him in his hardest times. He believed in God as he believed the sun would rise in the morning.

He was not intolerant of doubts, though. Especially with the Youths, it was important to keep an open mind, to try his best to listen to their anguishes and guide them towards a better path. His willingness to listen to other opinions without judgement while also being as faithful as a man could be was what made him good at his job, Joseph knew. He could be approachable and still give a chilling sermon if it was needed. He had a variety of topics always ready, but plain and simple faith was one of his favorites. It was when he really felt his preaching talent come through – it wasn’t rare to see people wiping away a few tears at the end of his sermons, and honestly, he understood why. There was nothing more beautiful than believing and feeling that unconditional love only God was capable of.

When he was younger, he doubted many things about his life and his future, but God was never one of them. He liked that, that certainness. He wasn’t sure he would ever find it anywhere else.

He knew anchors were a huge cliché. Still, he liked them. They reminded him of the smell of the sea, of salty water in his mouth and wind on his face. Most importantly, at twenty-one years old, honestly, he thought they looked cool. And it was such a beautiful day, and he had some money left, and his dad kept calling him over and over again and Joseph knew he couldn’t ignore his calls forever. He knew that minister school think kindly of tattoos, and he couldn’t help but think that maybe they’d end up refusing him, maybe they would need time to think, maybe during this time he could take a deep breath and sit down with dad and try to talk to him for once. He could tell him about the water and the wind. About the tattoo guy’s brown eyes and how he had the most gorgeous smile Joseph had ever seen. Maybe his dad would understand.

The needle on his skin hurt, but it didn’t burn half as much as the guy’s fingers touching his shoulder. His face flush, his heart raced and he had to fight the impulse to close his eyes and just feel his fingers tracing the drawing on his naked skin.

Maybe his dad would understand, he thought. Maybe God would. At twenty-one years old, he was naïve enough to believe that.

He turned the valve on the sprinkler too far. The water came in strong jets, falling all over his shirt.

“Damn it!” Joseph rushed to turn it off, but the valve didn’t move at first. For a ridiculous moment, he thought he might have broken the sprinkler on the first time he was using it, but after a few seconds of struggle, the valve turned.

It hadn’t wet just his lawn, Joseph noticed, with a quick glance to their next neighbor’s grass. Marilyn wasn’t there, but her husband was sitting at the door entrance, staring at him with a somber expression. Joseph wondered what his problem was. Then, he noticed the sprinkles of water on one side of the guy’s jacket.

“Oh, my, I’m so sorry-“ Joseph stopped abruptly, his mind desperately searching for the guy’s name. He had a few conversations with Marilyn at the bake sale of last week, welcoming the new family on the neighborhood, and he was pretty sure she had introduced her husband, but the man was clearly not a talkative type, so Joseph hadn’t payed him much attention. Between everyone he met at the church and the residents of the cul-de-sac and their families, it was hard to keep track of everyone’s name.

“’s okay.” What’s-his-name said, in a low, raspy voice. He took his jacket off to wipe away the excess water, and Joseph stood up, walking towards his yard, determined to make up for his own embarrassment.

“Really, I can’t apologize enough” He said, his voice falling into his usual cheerful tone. He couldn’t help it. Some people charmed others with their natural charisma and kindness, Joseph did it with his perfect neighbor performance. It hadn’t failed him in years, and if he could only remember the guy’s name, he’d get him out of there with a plate of brownies and no memory of a faulty sprinkler in no time. It was something with an R – Richard? Roger? “You, hm, you know how these lawn things are.” He gestured aimlessly, smiling.

The guy’s face was unreadable. “I don’t.” He said, focusing on his jacket again. His fingers touched the wet sleeve, as if checking the damage, and Joseph found himself noticing how callous his hands were. The guy wasn’t really a muscular type, and he was maybe a few inches shorter than Joseph, but he had strong hands, marked with a few tiny scars, as if he was used to dangerous work. He closed his fist around some of the jacket’s fabric, twisting it, and, really, they were… Great… Hands.

Watching it like an idiot, Joseph felt his mouth go dry. His neighbor caught his look, staring right back. Joseph couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like there a smirk on the corner of his lips.

“Oh, uh, really?” He blurted out, feeling ridiculous for how nervous he suddenly felt. They were just hands, Joseph reminded himself. And that was just a neighbor who wasn’t interested in his lawn care talk. Nothing to get flushed about. “I’m going to, you know, get back to…” He gestured aimlessly again. The guy’s dark eyes were staring at him intensely, and suddenly he couldn’t remember how to use his hands.

Joseph turned around, trying to get away from that conversation as soon as possible. To his horror, though, his feet was caught up on the sprinkler’s hose, pulling the valve and turning it on. “Oh, crap!” He exclaimed, falling to his knees to turn it off, ignoring the jets of water falling all over his face and shoulders.

One more time, he struggled with the valve. He definitely owned that lawn supplies store an angry email. “You need some help with that?” Something-With-An-R asked, with a distinct irony in his voice.

“No, thank you, I’ve got it” Joseph answered, annoyed, finally managing to twist the valve and turn the sprinkler off. A very angry email, without a doubt. He turned towards his neighbor’s home. “Did I got you wet again? I’m so-“

“Sorry, yeah, I got it.” He said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “Do all ministers around here swear that much?”

Joseph raised his eyebrows. “What?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know” He continued, putting his hands on the pockets of his jacket. The stupid sprinkler clearly did not manage to get him twice, unlike Joseph, whose shirt was soaking wet. “In my book, “crap” and “damn” are just morning greetings, but I would have imagined a youth minister’s vocabulary to be a lot more… Refined.”

That was the longest sentence Joseph had ever heard the man speak, and it was making fun of him. Maybe a plate of brownies wouldn’t be able to fix it, after all. “The man upstairs has better things to do than to worry about my rude vocabulary towards faulty lawn care tools.” He said, twisting the bottom of his shirt to get rid of the excess water.

The guy smirked. He had such strong features even the smallest hint of a smile was enough to make his face seem a lot friendlier. “If you say so.”

Joseph ignored him, busy pulling at the pink fabric. The easiest option would be to just change it, but he had to coordinate a bible study meeting later, and he hadn’t done laundry that week yet, so he was almost sure that was his only clean shirt. He twisted his sleeves up to his shoulders, trying to get them at least damp.

“Oh!” The man exclaimed. Joseph stared at him confusedly. For a fraction of a second, he almost seemed embarrassed, but quickly composed himself. “Nice anchor.” He said, dark eyes looming over Joseph’s tattoo, looking at him in a way that made his cheeks feel hot.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” He replied awkwardly. Then, without thinking, he added: “It was a stick and poke.”

The guy raised his eyebrows, unable to hide the impressed look on his face. “Really?” He crossed his arms, stepping forward to take a closer look. Joseph felt his face warm, in a strange, pleasant way he wasn’t used to. “I guess the man upstairs has better things to do than worry about that either, huh?”

He smiled. “You’re absolutely right… Hm…”

“Robert.” The guy cut his weird pause, mercifully. He was still looking at the tattoo.

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I’m bad with names sometimes” He said, smiling apologetically, but Robert shrugged. If he was in any offended, he hid it well. “I’m Joseph.”

“I know.” His eyes turned to Joseph’s face, staring at him again. He smiled.

It was a sunny afternoon. Still, Joseph couldn’t help but think it was the brightest thing he’d seen all day.

He smiled back, unconsciously. His eyes met the other man’s dark gaze. Robert didn’t look away, and neither did he.

II. every day and every night

He spend one afternoon per week on his yatch. Sometimes the children came along, excitedly running through the lower deck and attempting to reach the water, looking for dolphins. Other times, Mary took them with her to see her parents, or just to go to the mall or the movies, and it was an unspoken truce between them not to contact each other for a couple hours. For Joseph, it was nice. There was nothing he enjoyed more than feeling the sea breeze on his face, almost tasting the salty water beneath his feet, staring at the horizon where the sky and the ocean seemed to meet.

He never went far, obviously. Mostly, he just took a small leap around the coast, his back turned away from the land, never looking at it but constantly aware of it’s presence. It was dangerous to go to the open sea, and he needed to be home by dinnertime anyways.

So he didn’t do much, really. He just enjoyed the feel of the sun on his skin and the ropes on his hands. The sea near Maple Bay was mostly calm, like everything else in the city, but he could still feel the waves moving the boat around, sometimes shaking it after one strong turn. Joseph loved it – it was on those moments that he felt like he wasn’t alone in the yatch, that there was a living presence in those waters beneath him, a powerful force capable of destroying the entire continent of land if it wanted to. God created man in His own image, Joseph knew, but personally, he could feel Him better in the sea. He’d look at the horizon and blue-green water and how the sky was just one different shade of blue and there was nothing that could convince him someone hadn’t worked really hard to create something that perfect.

Sometimes he thought about going a little further. To risk getting a little bit late for dinner – it wouldn’t be the end of the world, there was food in the fridge. To go to a point where there was no sight of the coast. See the whales swimming closer to the surface. On such a warm day he could take his shirt off, show the anchor mark in open light, without a single curious look or judgmental whisper. He could sip a Margarita and maybe take a dive. The whales wouldn’t mind.

It was dangerous to go to the open sea, Joseph knew, but if he was honest, his biggest fear was not being able to force himself to go back.

He prayed every night, before going to sleep. Most of the times, Mary wasn’t there. She rarely slept in their bed anymore, and never when he was still awake. He didn’t mind it, though – that was his moment to speak to God alone, without any audience. At church, during a sermon, it was his duty to make his words appeal to the community. At night, in his bed, he could bare his soul, whisper all he wanted to get out of his heart, and hope it would be enough for God to understand.

So he prayed. He prayed for Mary and the kids. He prayed for everyone in their little cul-de-sac: For Brian to keep raising Daisy to be such a wonderfully smart woman; for Mat and Carmensita to find their inner peace about Rosa; for Hugo and his never-ending battle to reach out to Ernest; for Damien to continue to unabashedly enjoy his passions; for Craig to catch a break, sometimes, and for River to continue to grow up healthy.

He prayed for Robert a lot – usually way after all the other prayers, almost as an afterthought, because he was never sure how to put his pleas in words. He always started by praying to Marilyn’s soul, but when it came to him, his words got messier and nonsensical. Some of them were logical – he prayed for him to slow down his drinking, for Val to call home more. And then – messy. He prayed for the tears he saw at the funeral to never come back again. For the ghosts and spirits who could be around the cul-de-sac to show up sometimes, for him to have the hunt of his life. For his eyes and his voice and that smile he saw for the first time three years ago. For them to never go away, to never fade, to never get away from him.

(God never answered. He liked that, a little. He didn’t know if wanted to hear what He would have to say to him.)

Then he’d go to sleep. He could feel the smell of Mary’s perfume coming from the pillow next to his, and, very rarely, he could feel when the weight of her body fell onto the bed, drunk and clumsy but still very careful not to touch him. He could turn around and hug her or stand up and fetch her a glass of water and ask about her night, but he never did.

(He did pray for her. That had to count for something.)

A lot of the neighbors asked why he kept inviting him. Nobody from the cul-de-sac, of course –the dads were used to Robert’s anti-social ways. The people from the church, however, didn’t enjoy that random lonely guy walking around their barbecues and bake sales just to sulk in a corner, drinking whiskey and never talking to anyone. They knew they couldn’t raise such concerns around Mary, of course, because of her “Maryness”, as Edith put it once with a malicious laugh, so they went to him instead. “He seems to drink a lot”; “Where do you know him from, Joseph?”; and, sometimes, when a few of the Margaritas had already kicked in: “Is he single?”.

Joseph had an answer ready for all of those questions - “Would you like another burger?” was his favorite and most effective, along with “His house is right there, Helen”. If anyone cared to ask further, he had five different sermons in store about the importance of bringing people together and building a community regardless of differences. Love thy neighbor, even if said neighbor was an aloof alcoholic with a disturbing tendency towards dark humor. The church ladies could not approve of Robert’s ways, but they couldn’t argue with that.

Joseph had to admit they had a point, though. Nobody else in the neighborhood invited Robert for anything, mostly because he never bothered to show up. Still, he was in all of his barbecue parties, some of the bake sales, and even came to a few sermons, sometimes. To Joseph, it always felt great to see him arriving to any of those events – because his job was reaching out to people and Robert was hard to reach, of course. He tried to give attention to all of his guests, but he always made time for a moment to talk to Robert, to offer him an extra burger or brownie or introduce him to someone. The former was always easier than the latter, but Robert never stopped showing up, so he figured he didn’t actually mind it that much.

Maybe he enjoyed it, Joseph thought. Maybe it was the best part of his day, as much as it was his.

He didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was when he was there. His olive skin under the sun, the subtle way he nodded his head in Joseph’s direction when he said his name, the rare laugh that felt like a true prize to see. His unblinking stare, unsettling anyone who attempted to have a casual conversation with him. Robert had a special talent for making people uncomfortable. Joseph spend his life trying to make sure no one around him was as uncomfortable as he perpetually felt, so Robert’s posture should have offended him, but instead, he admired it. He couldn’t imagine being the person everyone wanted to avoid in social gatherings, let alone wearing it as a badge of pride. It was so different from anything he had ever seen: Robert was never a jerk, he just didn’t make any effort. It was wrong, of course, but it left him almost excited to watch, feeling a rush of adrenaline every time Robert casually walked through the events his life revolved around, unconcerned with whatever thoughts about him anyone else might have. As if they didn’t matter. As if there was so much more out there.

He was shocked when Robert told him he had never sailed before – in Joseph’s opinion, he’d be very good at it.

The raspy voice. “Joseph?”

“Uh, what?

The dark eyes. “What do you want?”

“Wha- Nothing, Rob.”

That smile. “You were staring.”

III. and I'm dying for the rush

Sometimes, he’d spare a portion of the brownies for the bake sale. Not much, just enough for a plate. Because Robert didn’t eat enough, he knew. He couldn’t regulate the man’s diet, of course, but he could at least try to make sure he had something other than a liquid dinner from time to time.

Robert liked the brownies. He wouldn’t admit it, but he never returned him anything other than a clean plate, and Joseph saw the way he eyed them at the sale. It made him think of Chris’s eager look while he was baking, right before he asked if he could lick the spoon. It was almost childish, and Joseph couldn’t help but smile. Robert was the most ridiculous person he knew. He imagined him during a hangover avoiding the brownies on his table until his stomach was growling in protest and felt a wave of affection overcome him. He was so ridiculous and strange and stubborn. He would probably take them to his latest attempt at demon hunting in the hills. Joseph’s smile hurt his cheeks. Because he loved baking, of course. And he loved when people loved his baking. And he loved feeding his friends and Robert was his friend. And he loved… He shook his head and put the batch in the oven.

He put aside the corner pieces for him, every time.

“You know” Robert said, resting his hands on the chair behind him. “That’s much farther than I thought we’d go.”

He was standing in front of the bow, looking up. His hair was still damp from the few waves they passed through earlier, a few grey streaks standing out on his forehead. He looked peaceful and happy in a way Joseph didn’t remember seeing him before. The moon was bright above them and the smell of the ocean mixed with the night breeze. Standing there beneath the early night sky, Robert seemed to fit in perfectly, almost gracefully. He stood in the front of Joseph’s boat as if he was always meant to be there. It made his heart ache.

He was going to be late for dinner.

Robert looked back at him, waiting for an answer. Joseph felt his cheeks warm, trying to remember what he had said. He was doing this too often lately.

“…With the boat.” Robert helped, a slight smile on his lips. “You know, because you talked so much about not being able to go far. I kind of imagined you’d want to sunbathe at the docks or something.”

Joseph smiled, rolling his eyes. They had taken a marginally longer leap around the coast than he was used to. It wasn’t much, but it was still better than nothing. “Next time, I will take you to see some whales.”

“Better not. My last run-in with a whale didn’t end up well for anyone – for me, for her or for the United States Coast Guard.” He stared at Joseph unblinking. “Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can still hear their screams.”

Joseph laughed. Robert attempted to remain serious, but he was smiling, too.

He had smiled so much during that afternoon. He had the most gorgeous smile Joseph had ever seen.

He swallowed hard.

“Anyway, we should probably turn back” He said, looking back at the coast. Then he felt a warm, subtle touch on his shoulder - Robert’s hand.

“Do you want to get back now?” He asked, soft, almost whispering, an innocent question, as if he couldn’t feel Joseph whole body waking up at his touch. Maybe he couldn’t, Joseph thought, pathetically. Maybe he wasn’t even aware of how much he was burning up inside. Robert was a single man with normal desires and no attachments – maybe it didn’t feel like he could die like this, because of the warm of someone’s hand. And yet to Joseph it felt like his heart was going to stop at any moment, right there, trying to not look at Robert, trying to not acknowledge the question floating between the two of them. They were at arm’s length and yet he could feel his presence, his skin, his gaze, crawling inside of him and taking over his soul like the sermons warned him the Devil could do.

But nothing about Robert felt harmful or dangerous – terrifying, yes, but that good, incredibly amazing type of terrifying eagerness you could get before the drop of a rollercoaster, the kind of fear that made you feel alive. Joseph could listen to Robert’s breath behind him and feel the air on his own lungs sharpen as the smell of the ocean mixed with the man’s scent – and he was closer to him, now, before he even realized it. He could see his olive skin in the moonlight, and he felt Robert’s hand move to his shoulder to touch his face, still softly, still giving him the time to slap it away and ask what in the world was he doing. But they were doing it, together, almost on a trance, and now Joseph was turned towards him and he wanted to drown on his face, to suffocate on smell of his hair and follow through his own path to Hell traced on Robert’s smile wrinkles. It felt like seeing the sea for the very first time, and Joseph stuttered, scared of saying the wrong thing and breaking the spell, scared of everything else in the world around them. Robert cupped his cheek and waited, and Joseph noticed his fingers shaking, and maybe he could feel it after all, maybe he knew and he wasn’t alone and maybe he could want Joseph just an ounce as much as Joseph wanted him.

He traced his face and touched his lips, so lightly, and Joseph forgot how to breathe and think and exist in anywhere other than the touch of Robert’s fingers, so hesitant and still shaking with eagerness. Joseph watch him trace his mouth and smiled slightly, because Robert’s face was flushing, and because if he was going to die there it was nice to know he wasn’t dying alone.

“I-I… I don’t… Robert.” He mumbled, almost laughing when Robert stopped abruptly. He grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, their foreheads touching, keeping his eyes open to stare into Robert’s dark orbs to whisper, more certain than he had ever been of anything else, in his entire life: “I don’t want to go back.”

Robert smiled against his skin, that unbelievably happy smile crushing what was left of Joseph’s heart, then pressed his mouth against his, and, just like that, the world was over.

(It hurt, the way he kissed – it was too rough and clumsy and eager, sucking his lips like he needed to, burying his mouth on his neck with licks and pecks and not-so-delicate bites. They tripped twice on their way to the cabin, falling onto the bed like a couple of teenagers. Joseph’s back hurt, but he was laughing too hard to notice, mocking Robert about the condom on his jacket’s pocket, covering his face with kisses when he tried to disguise his flushed cheeks. Robert’s breath smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and warm, sunlit days. He bit Joseph’s shoulder almost too hard, his tongue tracing the anchor as if to savor it. He spit on his hand and started prepping himself, legs spread around Joseph’s lap, moaning and trembling so hard Joseph thought he wouldn’t make it. Robert smirked at his look, leaning forward and kissing him hard and messily, mumbling reassuring words even though Joseph could feel him shaking, could feel his heartbeat against his own chest, could tell he was already holding it as much as he was. He guided Joseph inside of him way too quickly, letting out a few pain noises as they adjusted, Joseph’s hands moving up his thighs, feeling his skin burning beneath his fingertips, forgetting where and who they were. It was so fast, and so messy, and Robert came a few moments afterwards, out of breath, crumbling into him and holding his body close. Joseph fell on his back and they rolled in the bed together, laughing as the frame made a creaking noise at their combined weight. They were old and awful and pathetic and there was still a world out there, in the end, waiting for when they would have to come out of that room.

Robert nuzzled against his neck, smiling softly – sweaty, breathless, perfect. Joseph watched as he intertwined their fingers and wanted to cry.)

IV. 'cause my heart ain't got enough

“Good morning.”

Joseph jumped, dropping the cereal box in the table. He wasn’t used to hearing her voice in the morning. Through the day, they talked, or, more accurately, traded phrases when it was strictly necessary - or when she felt like snipping at him and he felt like she was too irresponsible and the polite sentences quickly turned into frustrated screams. Lately, though, that wasn’t as common as it used to be. He altered between feeling so guilty he couldn’t look at her or feeling so happy he couldn’t even remember to. Either way, he was not talking to Mary enough for them to even fight anymore.

“Good morning”, he said, rushing to get the cereal back to the plate. Mercifully, Mary ignored his nervous tone, walking to the counter to get her coffee.

She liked it black with no sugar, Joseph knew, and felt a pang of sadness for remembering that small detail. Then, he felt a pang of guilt for not having thought to make some for her.

Well, she never wakes up so early, he thought, defensively. Neither did Robert, though, and he never forgot to leave some breakfast ready on his table, sometimes even with a note.

There were a few moments of silence as Mary made her coffee. She took a sip, her brown eyes finding his.

She deserved better, he thought.

“Here, let me wash this for you” Joseph said, quickly taking the coffee mug out of her hands as she finished. She let out a short, humorless laugh.

Joseph didn’t turn his head. He washed the mug in the sink, carefully scrubbing the bottom of it to make sure it was perfectly clean. He could feel Mary’s eyes watching him quietly.

He never did Robert’s dishes, he thought. At least there was that.

Her voice cut the silence between them like a knife: “You know, I…”

Joseph froze abruptly, rinsing the soap off the coffee mug. He wasn’t used to hearing hurt in her voice at any time of the day.

He listened as she took a deep breath behind him, and felt the air vanish from his own lungs. That could be the end of the line, he thought. When she opened her mouth again, with just a few words, their future could crumble in front of their eyes. Joseph clung to the coffee mug on his hand as if it were his own life slipping away from his fingers. Maybe Mary also felt dizzy, he imagined, maybe she, too, felt that suicidal urge to ruin their lives burning in her own chest as well. Maybe she, unlike him, was brave enough to do it in the daylight.

She took another breath. He held the coffee mug so hard his hand hurt.

Then – nothing.

He could hear her tiny, muffled sobs behind him. She didn’t want him to listen, though, so he pretended he didn’t. The least he could do was respect her pride.

He heard laughing and talking noises coming from the top of the stairwell. Christian and Christie climbed down, jumping steps and racing each other, while Chris walked behind them. Crish was soon going to start crying in his crib. A regular morning in the Christiansen household.

Mary turned around to talk to the kids. She was good at composing herself when she wanted to, Joseph thought. He thought he could see a slight redness in her eyes, but nothing noticeable. They circled the table, altering between calming the twins down and attempting to convince Chris to finish his eggs. In the rare times where she was sober, Mary could be a valuable help. Serving cereal, feeding Crish, wiping away a stain of syrup Christie spilled on the table – they did work well together, when they weren’t talking to each other. The kids had a nice breakfast. Her eyes didn’t meet his once.

He wanted to stop it, he really did. He did it a thousand times on his head, planning it carefully, thinking of what to say and how. He wanted to find the right words to make Robert understand. Joseph hated hurting others. That didn’t mean he didn’t do it, however; in fact, apparently, it meant he did it often. It meant that he woke up every morning and avoided his wife’s face and felt his heart beat faster at the sound of his neighbor’s voice. And every time they kissed he planned again, word for word, how he would break Robert’s heart, throw away every bit of trust he had in him, fix their mistake by saving himself. Afterwards, in bed, he’d look at the ceiling and think about the words “until death do us part” and the admired look on Chris’s face whenever he’d finish a sermon. He sat up straight, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath before turning to look at him.

Robert never looked away, not even once. His dark eyes met Joseph’s with that eternal silent defiance, waiting, almost challenging him to say something – but between the sheets Joseph could feel his body tensing up, preparing for the punch, so willing and ready to get hurt it broke his heart. He was lonely and sad and the most beautiful man Joseph had ever known. The more he waited for him to leave, the more he wanted to bury his face in his neck and promise to stay forever, watching the way those eyes lit up with that disbelieving wonder that almost made him want to be telling the truth.

He prayed. Every night, without fail. He’d lay in bed, join his hands together, and whisper to God – for his neighbors, for the youths at the church, for Mary. For Robert. He would clutch his hands together, shut his eyes and ask for God’s light, for His guidance. He asked for strength to do the right thing, to redeem himself and fix the mess they had made.

(Most of the times, Robert was lying right by his side. Joseph’s heart soared at the smell of his hair on his pillow, the warmth of his skin against his, almost wanting it was possible neither of them had to ever wake up. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, careful, not wanting him to see his hands shaking.)

He prayed for his children the most. Every night, the same prayers, for every single one of them. For them to grow up healthy; for them to learn to care and love for each other; for them to become happy, fulfilled, good human beings.

For none of them to end up anything like their father, ever. He felt like God owed him that much.

Robert didn’t own a coffee mug. He didn’t own any real dishes, just a bunch of disposable plates and cups he always forgot to repurchase and ended up reusing without even washing properly. His kitchen was probably somber and dirtier than the town’s cemetery – no wonder he preferred to spend his time there.

He laughed when Joseph said that; not his usual sarcastic scoff, but a honest, full, happy laugh. Robert rarely laughed, even when he was making fun of people. He made up the most absurd stories and told them without cracking a smile. Joseph fell for so many of those tales in the beginning that it was impossible to take it seriously anymore, and yet Robert kept trying to fool him with them, laughing when he rolled his eyes, smiling like a kid when Joseph tried to make up his own versions. He hated small talk but loved a silly banter, arguing with him about movies, gardening, or any other random topic for hours. He would talk and talk, and then he could spend hours in silence comfortably, usually resting his head in Joseph’s shoulder, smoking a cigar and dropping the ashes on the sheets like it was no big deal.

He didn’t talk to Val anymore. He never talked about her, either, even though he had to know Joseph wanted to ask. He held his tongue every time, though. He didn’t want to push Robert with something he didn’t trust him with.

He loved drinking. He was an alcoholic, without a doubt – a high functioning one, sure, but still. He smelled like whiskey and most nights he didn’t spend with Joseph were spent at Jim and Kim’s. Sometimes, Joseph found him at his own door early in the morning, snoring loudly, because he had forgotten his keys somewhere. He lost his keys often, and no one in the neighborhood had a copy. Joseph scolded him for that a lot, because how irresponsible could you be, really, and then one day he just handed him one, right before turning around to get dressed, without saying a word. Joseph hugged him by the waist and whispered “Thanks”, kissing his shoulder.

He felt him shivering. He shivered a lot.

He lived alone and spend most of his time alone. He was lonely, Joseph knew, in the middle of his world of whiskey bottles and classic movies and a bed he used as an ashtray. He didn’t own a coffee mug. He spend a lot of his nights ghost hunting. He was like a fantasy right out of a poorly written romance for teenagers, in all his screwed up coolness. He was pathetic and sad, and impulsive and passionate and wonderful, and Joseph wanted to make breakfast for him for the rest of their days. He wanted the keys to his home and wanted him on his home and his bed, waking up to his alarm to get the house chores ready before he was headed for church. He wanted to hold his hand at a Sunday service, take him to the open sea in the afternoon, find an amazing island with lots of creepy spiritual legends he’d want to go after. He wanted to watch the rest of his hair turn grey, to ask about Val, to tell him about Crish’s first word. He thought the world had ended on that night in the boat when they doomed themselves, but in the end it was still there, and a crazy, stupid part of him couldn’t stop thinking and wondering if maybe it was there for a reason, and maybe it wouldn’t mind if they dared to exist in it together.

He wasn’t twenty-one anymore, though. He already knew the answer to that question.

“Robert?”

“Yeah?”

He looked at him straight in the eyes. “I think you know what I’m about to say.”

Robert’s body tensed up by his side, his skin almost touching his, irradiating so much warm Joseph could almost feel it.

Still, he didn’t look away. The dark eyes stared at him unblinking. He wouldn’t cry, Joseph knew, even if the effort killed him.

“I know.”

And, for Joseph, at least, it felt like it could kill. He was definitely about to murder something that night. The laughs, the touches, the kisses, the whispered talks in his boat’s cabin – a bunch of things that should never have existed in the first place, about to fade forever in those next few moments.

He looked at Robert, though, and, instead of murder, he felt like dying – he felt the weight of the world they had destroyed that night in the yatch on his shoulders, crushing him. They didn’t have enough power to destroy a world, Joseph knew, not even together. They were both too weak, too miserable, too tempted by the easiness with which they could melt into each other’s body and forget about all of that for a night or two.

But they couldn’t. Not forever, not anymore. Not with Robert’s dark eyes looking at him like he didn’t even knew it was possible to look at someone else – not with his silly bizarre stories, his whiskey-filled breath and his disposable dishes. Each time they melted, they merged in a way Joseph imagined the sky melded with the ocean in the horizon – except they didn’t, that was an optical illusion, and so was the thought he could just avoid this until a miracle happened, until one day he just woke up and Robert’s touch didn’t feel like it could burn through his skin even when they accidentally bumped into each other in the middle of a barbecue.

And Robert knew it, was waiting for it since the first moment, and Joseph felt his heart ache for him, like it could rip his body apart from the inside just to hold Robert against him and hear that raspy laugh again.

But they both knew – it was time.

Joseph leaned forward, his eyes never leaving his because he owed him at least that, mouth half-open to murder both of them, right there, at Robert’s bed, and he send a silent prayer for God to be with him in those final moments, to fill him with the strength he needed to follow the right path once and for all.

The words came out seamlessly, easy, right: “I love you.”

#roseph #joseph christiansen #robert smalls #dream daddy #ddads #my fics

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laurenredhead · 4 years

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Thoughts About Opera, and Half-a-Review

I have been thinking about writing a blog on something like this for some time. At various times I’ve written reviews on this blog, some of which have been quite well received. In principle, I like writing reviews: it is a good way to share new music with people and also to offer a way into new music for people who are less familiar with it. But there are some downsides, too: people send things to you that you don’t have time to review, or that there might be reasons not to do so. For me, one such reason is that I tried to feature mainly music that was not very well known and so I didn’t want my blog to be just a medium of extra publicity for releases that already have a lot of that behind them and don’t need my voice to promote them more. Another reason not to write so many reviews became the expectation that I might review everything I listened to or saw, leading to a never-ending to-do list that took time away from writing other things.

Nevertheless, holding back on writing reviews doesn’t meant that listening to music and attending performances doesn’t generate thoughts about music that I’d like to share. I’ve also found that lately many of these thoughts have come from performances that are outside the kinds of things I would have usually reviewed: namely, opera. I’ve always enjoyed opera, but over the last few years the number of opera performances I attend has been steadily increasing. This is both because of time and opportunity since I can now go after work. I used to limit myself to productions of more contemporary works but now try to see everything from he twentieth century or later and early (usually baroque) operas as well. The bit in the middle is where I personally lose interest in the music as opposed to any specific reason to avoid these.

I have also attended a few smaller productions where possible; particularly at the Tete-a-tete festival. In the past year some of these have been created by composers I supervise - meaning it would be unfair to discuss them in detail on this blog - but others have just sparked my interest in different ways. As you might imagine, there’s a lot of variation between the different types of music I see, and also in what is possible for productions in different venues and with different approaches and budgets. This might lead some to question whether all of these productions are in fact operas. I don’t want to dwell on this question very long: the kinds of criteria that are often suggested as limits on “opera” in such discussions are clearly unhelpful - singing style, ensemble size, types of plots, and use of particular types of staging have all been mentioned at various times in the past. Clearly all of those things limit who can make opera and who attends it, by definition, as well. While a more nuanced discussion might also be had, for the purposes of this blog I will proceed as follows: things that say they are an opera are an opera. Robert Ashley’s operas are operas. Operas that are entirely digital (such as A - a shadow opera by Cecilia Ore) are operas. Feminist flash operas are operas. You get the drift.

Many of the things that have inspired me about opera have not come from specific types of productions, venues, or periods of music. Limiting my listening by any of these things would therefore limit the potential for inspiration. And may of my observations are probably very banal: exciting musical experimentation is found often in some of the music earlier works (much more so than some more recent ones), drama and musical complexity are not all linked (and “complex” new music doesn’t kill off drama but often effectively carries it), text is very important and quite often bad in operas of any period. While I’ve really enjoyed some innovative staging concepts, I also feel that staging can be used to apologise for certain performances and things that look visually impressive aren’t always the most effective presentations of an opera even though they may be beautiful. Not everything goes well all of the time, of course.

These kinds of observations can, in reviews of some new operas, become a litany of complaint. If the largest and best-funded opera houses can’t make the right choices with access to top creative professionals, technology, and everything else besides, how might smaller and newer productions do this? Indeed, how might they be legitimately considered as opera by those who may hold the narrow criteria I mentioned above? Before I give an example of what I believe to be one such successful production, I want to state that I don’t think there are right answers to these questions. There are probably lots of “right answers” that find good audiences, but nevertheless audiences who don’t consider themselves to be opera audiences and so never concern themselves with questions of what opera can achieve. While this is also fine, I do think that it is important to be concerned with the futures of those pieces as operas, too. However, the example that I will describe briefly probably sits a lot closer to classical opera than those examples.

Another caveat before I launch into the description: when watching this piece I didn’t expect to write a blog about it. I didn’t keep the programme or any notes. So I don’t have all the correct details of the musicians. For this I apologies: all errors are mine.

In November I was grateful to be invited to attend the London preview of Stephen Crowe’s most recent opera. For those who don’t know his work, Crowe is a composer of a number of operas in some different styles. This isn’t the first piece of his I have seen, but that didn’t necessarily tell me what to expect from the performance. The work is titled Lady Chatterley’s Trial and follows the obscenity trial of the book, including some extracts. Rather than a completely historical re-telling, the trial contemplates a number of perspectives from expert witnesses who appeared (including Richard Hoggart) and ideas about the book (such as something written by T. S. Elliot that was not included in the original trial itself). The singers are accompanied by piano, and the courtroom exchanges are antiphonally punctuated by a chorus who sing passages that reflect on the feelings of the book’s central character, including emphasising her loneliness; an effective juxtaposition between the focus of the trial and the themes of the book that it overlooked.

(Photograph: still from Lady Chatterley’s Trial, image by Reece Straw, used with the composer’s permission)

On the whole I found this a good opera plot. It was not in itself difficult to follow but offered humour, pathos, and things to think about. As the “trial” aspect was more of a discussion between a single lawyer who at times argued for both sides and the witnesses - who considered further questions of literature, meaning, and human experience, as well at the actual book - there was plenty to engage with beyond the notion of winning or losing that might be associated with a courtroom drama. The music itself was very effective in delivering this. Crowe’s aforementioned range of styles found themselves in the piece at various points in a range from pastiche that could have been contemporaneous with the novel to music that was much more modern. Despite this complexity, the vocal lines remained very sing-able and easily articulated which meant that the twists and turns of the plot were never lost.

Beyond this, I think that a success of this piece was that it worked extremely well for its forces. Rather than a piece for large forces that felt scaled-down (in the possible hope of scaling up in the future), this is music that was written for and worked for its setting. The chorus comprised four voices: countertenor, alto, tenor, bass, who often sung in quite intricate contrapuntal lines that were well articulated as individual voices but that could have been lost in a larger group. The piano part demonstrated the piano’s range of colour rather than the ability of the piano to fit the orchestra’s range onto its keys. Even the venue - Toynbee Studios - was well-chosen to represent the courtroom without the need for a wide variety of props. The clarity of the vocal writing (already mentioned) made surtitles unnecessary (these were used only for the chorus and quite simply and effectively integrated into the set).

(Photograph: still from Lady Chatterley’s Trial, chorus, image by Reece Straw, used with the composer’s permission)

So, I found a lot to enjoy about this piece and much of it is the result of the effectiveness of the combination of the text, music and staging. I would recommend it to you. What I am left to wonder is the future of works such as this: it doesn’t need to be scaled up for presentation in a large opera house, but to be re-presented in other suitable settings. The lack of potential ensembles to consider works like this as “repertoire” is therefore a problem: it highlights that opera should not be about ever larger/more expensive productions but repeating effective dramatic productions. Works like Lady Chatterley’s Trial are complete in themselves as opera and deserve to be heard again as opera and not as stepping stones to future, larger works.

There are not any special conclusions to this discussion except to say that this final point - I think - warrants further consideration. While opera in some ways looks over-funded in terms of its share of public money vs its audience, only a tiny percentage of that share is finding its way to small-scale work compared with the maintenance of large opera houses. Composers such as Crowe may be the future of opera at those large houses, but even if that is the case it doesn’t particularly matter: work on the scale of Lady Chatterley’s Trial is not just the future of opera but its present, and as such I think needs to be more present in how opera is presented and discussed.

#opera #review #new music #contemporary music #contemporary opera

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theraredreamer · 7 years

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The Raven Cycle Headcanon: Adam Parrish and The Slytherin Escapade (First year out of Seven)

Hello, peeps! So here is a long Hogwarts AU that no one asked for, but I created anyway for two reasons. First, I needed some source of Slytherin!Adam/Hufflepuff!Ronan in my life.Also, I discovered Adam and Harry Potter share many similarities from their abusive home lives to the all-consuming desire to prove themselves worthy to those around them. This project will eventually turn into a seven part headcanon, covering all seven years of Hogwarts. It probably will get longer as the years past.Thanks for reading, and come chat with me anytime. Feel free to message me and share ideas for this headcanon!

xoxo,

Gossip Girl

1. Malnourished and mistreated, Adam Parrish lived in a cramped mobile home with his horrid muggle parents where he spent most of his time waiting for the day he would pack his belongings (however small they were), leave, and never come back. However, the protagonist of our story was only eleven. Until then, he was at the mercy of Robert Parrish. After a brutal encounter of his father’s wrath, Adam sat on the back steps when a large tawny owl swooped down, dropping a large yellow envelope with green ink at his feet. To his surprise, the envelope was addressed to him.

2. Dear Mr. Parrish, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31st. Yours Sincerely, Minerva McGonagall. Head Mistress

3.The content of the letter was absolutely ridiculous. Adam Parrish didn’t believe in magic. The only things that he believed in were science and hard work. Adam couldn’t be a wizard… could he? Like the time his father hit Adam so hard that a tooth flew out, but it had grow back the next day. Or the time at school when a chalkboard eraser flew out of no where and pelted Joseph Kavinsky in the face when he wouldn’t stop kicking Adam under the desk. Adam shook his head, forcing the thought away. No, magic didn’t exist. However, instead of tossing the letter like any sensible person, an urge compelled Adam to keep it in a shoe box under his bed. He thought no more of the letter until Robert riffled through Adam’s room. Adam didn’t know what his father’s reactions would be, but laughter was not a consideration. However, the laughter grew insidious as his father took delight in mocking him.When he finished making an utter fool out of Adam, Robert poured his beer on the letter. In all of his eleven years, Adam never felt more shame and humiliation than staring down at the beer splattered envelope. And rage. The rage overwhelmed him until he couldn’t see rationally anymore. The bottle in Robert held exploded, slicing his hands open. As Adam’s mother cleaned Robert’s hand, he complained about they don’t make glass bottles right anymore. He was barely holding onto it when the bottle burst in his hand.

4.The days crawled by, and Adam prayed for the end of summer. One blistering afternoon, Adam spotted a tabby sitting on the stairs, staring with piercing eyes. The tabby vanished, and a woman stood in its place. Terrified and amazed, Adam tripped over himself and landed in the dirt. “Mr. Adam Parrish.” When the woman spoke, she commanded authority. Adam nodded numbly. The woman requested that Adam follow her, and he did as he was told. Upon seeing this strange woman enter with his son, Robert assumed that Adam caused some troubled. He prepared himself to tear into Adam, but this woman explained that she is Headmistress at Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall. The one who address the letter that Mr. Parrish so barbarically destroyed the other night. Adam remembered the name in the letter, and he convinced himself that he was still dreaming. He never woke up this morning, but this was so very real at the moment. Mrs. Parrish threatened to call the police, and Mr. Parrish claimed that Adam wasn’t going anywhere with this woman. However, my friends, this was Minerva McGonagall, and she didn’t take shit from uncultured muggles. She slammed them with the cold facts about child neglect. Observing the waning bruise under Adam’s eye, she promised to transfigure them into tea cups if she saw another bruise on this little boy. Parrish family had no other choice but to let Adam go.

5. McGonagall took Adam to Diagonally for his school supplies, and Adam was so curious about this new world that he discovered. It was hard to focus when there is so much to take it. The Quality Quidditch Supply Shop. The Apothecary. The Owl Emporium. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. They purchase school robes for Adam, and then they were off to Flourish and Blotts for books. He foregoes a pet as Adam as he didn’t want McGonagall to spent more money on him than it was necessary. Adam ignored the way his heart sunk when they passed the beautiful tabby in the window.The last stop they made was Ollivander’s wand shop. Adam tested three wands before the right wand chose him, a hawthorne wood with a phoenix core, 9 and ¾.

6. For the most part, Mr. and Mrs. Parrish avoided Adam as if he contracted something deadly and contagious. On the morning Adam left for Hogwarts, he begged his next door neighbor for a ride to King Cross Station. McGonagall explained how to enter the platform. However, Adam hesitated, convinced that this was an elaborate stunt Robert orchestrated to humiliate him further. Adam lingered close to the platform, observing the patrons of King Cross Station. No one went through the brick wall. Adam had almost given up hope until a seemingly normal family approached Platform 9. However, this family couldn’t be all that normal because they carried an owl with them. Instead of asking for help, Adam studied them as they vanished through the wall between platform 9 and 10. It was real! Glancing around, oblivious muggles walk by, impervious to the most extraordinary event that had ever happened. Adam broke into a sprint, expecting for his trolley to crash, for his belongings to fly everywhere, for people to stare and whisper, for his face to burn with shame. None of that happened, Adam sailed through the platform wall.

7. As Adam stood in the side corridor amongst a thick pack of first years, his stomach churned anxiously. The boy next to him prattled on and on his family Gryffindor legacy, and Adam realized that he would be far behind compared to these other kids. They probably did magic at home all the time. Sure, he made a head start in the reading, but he knew nothing about performing magic. What if he couldn’t keep up; they would toss him out. Adam pulled his robe down, hoping the hem would cover the tattered sneakers he wore underneath. Some of the nerve quelled as McGonagall usher them in the Great Hall with it magnificent floating candles and it’s ceiling that resembled the bespectacled night sky. Adam hardly remembered sorting as he was so wrapped up in anxiety, but he would never forget Richard Campbell Gansey the lll. The way the crowd crescendoed into soft whispers and murmurs. This boy was the most beautiful creature that Adam Parrish had ever laid eyes on. He went to Ravenclaw, and Adam prayed to be sent to Ravenclaw just to be near him. Sitting on the stool with the sorting hat perched on top of his head, the hat declared SLYTHERIN! Applause erupted from the Slytherin table. Glancing at the beautiful boy at the Ravenclaw table, Adam was disappointed. It was hard to stay disappointed when the large platters before him were filled with every food imaginable. Adam grabbed everything within his reach. Not platter went unsampled. It was the best meal that he had eaten in his life. Adam ate until his stomach cramped in protest. That night, Adam slept well-rested for the first time ever.

8. Adam discovered that he wasn’t behind the other first years. In fact, he knows most of the answers to the professors’ questions. In their first potions lesson, Professors Slughorn complimented Adam and gave him an impressed smile when he and his partner correctly brewed a simple potion to cure boils. That first week, Slytherin had their first flying lesson with Hufflepuff. Adam didn’t look forward to flying at all, and flying didn’t take a liking to him either. He was one of the last students to get their broomsticks up. When he flew, Adam stayed close to the ground. He never truly managed to gain control over the broom. One student attracted the class’s attention. He raced on the broomstick, performing reckless loops, dives, and spins. Adam recognized him as the first to get his broomstick up, a Hufflepuff. His eyes held a gleeful mischief and his month was set in a perpetual sharp grin under the dark mop of hair. His blonde friend hooped and hollered from his own broomstick, and so do a few other Hufflepuffs. A few Slytherins attempted to match the Hufflepuff, but this kid communed with the sky in a way that Adam thought no one else will ever. He was a natural. Madame Hooch requested that the Hufflepuff, “Lynch”, stayed behind. Adam forgot all about him and flying lessons soon after.

9. If Hogwarts had one down side, it would be Tad Carruthers, who unfortunately was Adam’s only friend. Friend was a loose term. Very loose term. While Slytherin had a thirst for ambition, they also possessed a detector for poor, muggleborns such as himself. Most Slytherins were kids from wealthy, pure blooded families. Tad Carruthers was no exception, but he acknowledged Adam’s presence even if he had to endure uncomfortable punches on the arms and condescending ruffling of the hair.

10. Adam’s first year flew. He attended a few Quidditch matches, but flying didn’t interest him much. He found pleasure in the potions lab and the greenhouses. He spent many late nights in the library earning him the title of the most clever wizard of their year. When the time came, it was hard to believe that Adam would be returning to that scathing mobile home when Hogwarts felt like home. Before even leaving, Adam already longed to return to Hogwarts once more.

#adam parrish #trc #ronan lynch #richard campbell gansey iii #the raven cycle #noah czerny #tad carruthers #hogwarts au #harry potter universe #blue is coming soon #so is henry cheng #pynch

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amtopmthoughts · 4 years

Text

BACKGROUND STORIES

Annie and Will met in Chicago in 2000? when Annie moved there from SAN FRANCISCO/

Names:

adults:

Elizabeth

Katherine

Claire

Oliver

Amelia

Naomi

Richard

James

Rose

Adrianna

Renn

Lilly

Kids:

Samantha sam

Sam

Dylan

William will

Benjamin Ben

Violet vi v

Natalie nat

Olivia liv

Isabella Bella

Skylar sky

Scarlett

Carson

Naomi

Blake

Nathan Nate

aiden

Alexander Alex

Alexandra Alex lexie

Alexis

Tod:

Haley

Casey

Lilly

Jake

Dylan

Benjamin Ben

Last names:

Ward

Avery

Williams

Roberts

Lewis

Carson

Carter

Clack

Wilder

Turner

Duncan

Wilson

Harper

Hansen

Tate

Stevens

VIOLET duncan

PARENTS

Amelia & MATTHEW Duncan

WILLIAM "WILL" Avery

PARENTS

ANNIE AND RICHARD Avery

FRIENDS

LEXIE STEVENS

LIAM HARPER

SAM TATE

BENJAMIN BEN JOHNSON?

she didn't seem to be from here, this town, this planet. she didn’t look or sound like she was from this time. I loved the way she could sometimes sound like she was ancient of how wise she was. mostly she didn’t even listen to music from this decade and not much from the decade before this one.

she always had a book in her hands, no matter what the genre. she read everything. she liked 80s music and 80s movies and 70s music and 70s movies. she loved musical theatre, surrealism and jazz and her dream was to have a guy throw her hundreds of parties every day in hopes of one day having her attend one and then one day be received by a room full of orchids, her favourite flowers. when she reads this, she’ll get mad at me for saying orchids are her favourite flowers, because “orchids are plants, not flowers”.

truthfully, she loves a lot of things. damn, i never even knew someone who knew so much about so many things. this world was too small for her. when i looked into her eyes I saw all the truths she held inside of her, how secure and sure she was about so many things. but inside, she was also very “doubtful”, like a troubled genius, with a troubled soul and a troubled mind, way ahead of her time. she had a lot of questions, about everything, questions nobody would ask. some because would never dare to do so, others because didn’t even imagine to ask such questions, let alone have them. she was the least ignorant, most aware person I had ever known. she seemed so polished yet so careless, unbothered, effortlessly beautiful. she was amazing. out of this world.

I remember so clearly the first time I ever saw her. I had just arrived in town. It was just like one of those “pictoresc” towns you only see in movies where there’s always “the new kid”, which in this case, was me, and you just know coming in your whole life’s about to change. I wasn’t really brought here against my will but I wasn’t that excited about the idea of moving here either. truth is I hadn’t been keen on felling much in a while. I had been feeling a little numb, to be honest with you. You know when you just feel like you’re getting by but not really living, you’re not able to feel excited about anything you do because you’re not actually doing anything you love. this may be too cliche to even say but she was the one who brought me back, to life.

It was the end of summer, the week before school started

we had just arrived along with the moving trucks’ guys and as soon as we parked the car our front neighbours were outside of what was to become our new home with a fresh baked pie to welcome us. like I said, just like in the movies.

september had just came, summer was coming to an end and school was about to start, which meant having to make new friends or committing to be an outsider but I wasn’t intending on making an effort to do neither of those things. I was going to go with the flow.

Hi! You must be the new neighbours. I’m “Claire” and this is my husband “Ethan”. We brought you pie!

my mom “estendeu” her hand to receive the pie and said - Yes, yes we are. I’m “Annie” and this is “Richard”, my husband, this is will, our son and this is our daughter Olivia.

Hi, Olivia. Will, you must be our son’s age, Benjamin. You know, there’s a diner near by, all the kids in town go there. You should go too. It’s the best place to meet/make people your age/friends.

Yeah, son, you should go. - my dad told me, patting (on) my shoulder. at the time I didnt ware he was “encouraging” me to go to the place where I’d meet you. I never thanked him, either.

But, don’t you need me to help you with the moving?

No, no, sweetie. Today we’re only doing the kitchen so we can cook dinner tonight. We’ll take care of the rest later, there’s no rush. Go.

Okay, then…

So I went. My dad helped my mom start to settle in and Olivia played in the backyard. I sat in the car and I took a deep breath before I started the car and then, I drove. It wasn’t hard finding the diner. It was a small town. It was a very cool place, aesthetically pleasing and all. It really looked like the ones from the 50s. I came in and sat at the balcony. Took a look around. The place was really filled with teenagers. Most of them weren’t even seated. They all clearly knew each other but there wasn’t a big enough booth for everyone so they would switch places and be in between tables and engaging in multiple conversations. They all looked so happy and comfortable. I guess what they say about small towns, about everyone knowing each other and everything, really is true.

It didn’t took long until one of the “diners workers” came to me. - You’re new here. Guess you’re the son of the new neighbours.

I smiled. I actually liked how kind of invasive people were here. I preferred to think they were actually interest in being involved in the lives of the people around them rather than think they (are) were just nosy. Either way, I didn’t feel bothered or uncomfortable. I felt good so far. - Yes. Yes I am. How did you know? Besides the fact that it is a small town, there are not many houses for sale here. Only from time to time. And it’s never for long.

I guess people really like living here, huh?

Well, why wouldn’t they? This is paradise, honey, you’ll see. You’ll meet the love of your life here.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, but who knows… - I smiled again.

How about just a chocolate milkshake, for now? They’re the house specialty/specialty of the house.

Sure. I’d love one, please.

Right away. I’m Rose by the way.

Lovely to meet you, Rose, I’m will. - she smiled at me and she turned. She wore a typical pink 50s diner costume as well as all the other workers.

She brought my milkshake and I took another look around. As soon as I looked at the door the most stunning girl I had ever seen walked in. She didn’t look at me even though I was staring at her. (Thank god.) She had long brown hair, the most dazzling eyes, also brown, and was wearing a long white flowy dress with flowers on it. Looking so unbothered, careless and confident. She went in the direction of the other kids tables and greeted everyone.

I turned around, figuring one of them would eventually find creepy that I was staring but then, she came to the balcony.

Hi Rosie, can I have the usual, please?

Hello, violet! Of course. I’ll bring it to the table in a second.

No need, I’ll eat here next to…

I felt like spitting my milkshake all over the place and say “WHAT? ME?” but I didn’t want her first impression of me to be that I was a complete dork so I said “Will”.

Hey, will. You’re the new kid, right?

Right.

So, what’s your story?

I don’t really have a story…

Everyone has a story - she almost ran my sentence over with hers

I’d risk saying only in towns like this interest things happen but guess mine is that I lived in “Chicago” and my mom and dad suddenly felt like moving here, so now the 4 of us all live here.

Yes, I have a younger sister.

I’m sure she’s adorable.

Sometimes.

And why where? I don’t even think “…” is on the map.

she made me chuckle - well, on their honeymoon they had a road trip and they made a wrong turn and ended up here and loved it so much they stayed here the rest of the honeymoon and they’ve been wanted to come back here since then but never did… life I guess… was always in the way

Until now…

Until now.

But wait, a road trip on a honeymoon? That’s the coolest thing.

I chuckled again. - Yes, I think so too.

By that time she had devoured all her food and somehow managed to look very cute while doing it and continuing to question me

they stayed at a inn by the lake.

the diamond lake inn.

I didn’t really remember the name even though my parents told me about it a million times.

It’s called diamond lake because when the sun reflects on the water, it shines, like diamonds.

this really is a storybook town, it even has 50s inspired diners and everything

In fact, this diner opened in the actual 50s. They were Rosie’s parents and then they died and she started running it. She always worked here helping her parents so she couldn’t sell it when they were gone, even though it hurt her very much. It reminds her (of them very much) very much of them.

I guess everyone really has a story.

Indeed. That’s what makes us interesting. The things that happen to us, they make us who we are.

You’re very wise.

So I’ve been told. - we were both silent for a second, I guess “digesting” the moment that had just happened. - Well, I have to go now, but you should come on saturday. We’re all going to the lake tomorrow, we’re having a bonfire at night. we’ll eat s’mores and it will be fun. you should come, that way you’ll meet everyone. I’ll introduce you.

Okay, sure, I’ll come.

Great. See you saturday. If not sooner. (she left money on the table), grabbed her purse, said goodbye to everyone and left the diner.

The sound of the bell on the top of the door that rang when she opened it as she left was stuck in my head and all I got caught up on that “If not sooner”, what did she mean by that?

There was no way of denying that there was something about that Violet girl. Something very interesting.

On my way home I was thinking about her and I realised she spent an hour asking me all these questions and yet I knew nothing about her. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in finding about her but she didn’t really gave me the chance, she would either in a very subtle way change subject and making that or other question about me or asking question after question. Still somehow the conversation “flew” in such a natural way

Dylan! We’re in the kitchen. - my mother yelled as soon as I opened the front door

I knew where the kitchen was because of course my mom made us all visit the house before we bought it and a couple times after that so we could all give opinions and decide which room would be what and where we’d put things and so on… My mom was very into home decor. Me on the other hand, not so much. My dad was into furniture “handcrafting”, actually, my dad was into everything handmade. My dad built furniture and made ceramic. My mom painted and managed an art gallery back in Chicago where we lived. Olivia, was into every (cartoon) disney cartoon movie ever.

My mom was sold (on the house) because of the location, first of all. My mom wanted to move there ever since her and my dad spent her honeymoon here, but they had to go back because she had still to finish college. She was only in her second year. She was an art major. In the forth and last year of her degree she got offered an internship at a local art gallery while she took her masters degree and got offered a job to work there when she got it. She loved it so much she ended up accepting it. But over the years they just realised they really wanted to live in a calmer, sunnier, warmer place and somehow their minds always went back to that place, that small town they spent their honeymoon in. So one day, they decided it was time, and we came. And here we are.

Second of all, the front porch, the picket fence, the foyer with the skylight and the kitchen nook.

The house had a big foyer with a “clarabóia” which my mom obviously loved. A big (open) kitchen and living room open space. The big kitchen with the island (countertops) were a must so we could have our famous weekly sunday brunches as well as a big couch which would later host our traditional family game nights. It’s not that we spent little time together as a family, we actually spent a lot of time together. My parents were always very present and they worked hard to be the “cool parents”.

She also painted for fun. We always encouraged her to try and sell her paintings but she always said the intention wasn’t to make money out of them, she said their only purpose was to be a way of her expressing/to express herself. Dad never went to college but was one of the most intelligent/smart people I know. He always had the best fatherly advice. He was funny and could “steal” a laugh from my mom even when she was her angriest self . She says that’s why they’re still married after 20 years (and together after 25). My mom is the single most calm, most peaceful person I know. Except when she gets really mad, it doesn’t happen that often, but when it does… man.

Liv was probably the one who was most excited about moving here. She said her colleagues from her school in Chicago weren’t nearly as smart as her. She says she wants to meet people who can match her level. She was only in second grade.

I got to the kitchen and my mom and dad were making dinner and Olivia was setting the table

So, honey, how was it? Did you make friends already?

I made… one friend… sort of…

Really, who?

A girl… her name is violet.

A girl… named violet… that sounds like trouble, kiddo.

Honey… - my mom said, touching my father’s shoulder

we sat down at the table - anyway, she invited me to go with her and her friends, which is basically every kid in town, to the lake on saturday, they’re having a bonfire and stuff.

Oh, baby, that’s so great! That lake is so beautiful. I’m so happy… You’re going to have so much fun. I feel like we’re going to be very happy here.

We better be, you never “shut” up about this town ever since we sat our buts down in the car when we left.

There was something about this place, don’t act like you didn’t felt it to.

Oh… I know… I had fun in that lake, too…

The next day I woke up to chocolate chip pancakes. Dad’s famous chocolate chip pancakes. Because my dad worked at home, he was the one that always cooked breakfast/he always cooked breakfast.

Special pancakes for a special day. First breakfast in/on our new home. - breakfasts were a big deal in the Avery household. My parents say it’s the most important meal of the day. We loved breakfast. We loved breakfast food. My mom always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day because it set the mood for the entire day, if you started the day eating good you’d have energy to carry you through your day. Also, she always said it was important to start the day with good, positive “vibes” and that’s what we’d get in our home. Rarely ever someone would wake up cranky. In fact, rarely ever someone would be cranky at all. I loved my family. I really did.

Sit down kids. - my mom said while she poured orange juice in our cups.

So, I invited the Johnson’s for dinner tonight. Claire, Ethan and their son, Benjamin. That way you can meet him too, Dylan.

Since you’ve only met that girl yet, that is - my dad intervened

Anyway - my mom resumed her speech - you do know what means, right? - we all looked at her - Come on, guys, you know what it means! The moving guys are coming again today to help us bring the rest of the heavy stuff and move around some of the stuff.

After breakfast we "arranged" the rest of the house and after that we cleaned it. By six, we were done and my mom started cooking. At seven, the Johnson's rang our doorbell. I answered the door.

we brought you another pie. You mother said you liked the one we brought you yesterday. - I actually really did like it.

Thank you. - I said while I grabbed the pie.

And this is Benjamin.

Hey... It's Ben.

Nice to meet you/hi, Ben. - I laughed and we shook hands. - come, my parents and my sister are in the kitchen.

My mom was still with her apron on and as she saw the johnson’s come in to the kitchen she "sacudiu" her hands on the (front part of the) apron and she greeted our guests. - hi! I'm sorry, I just finished cooking! .... and you must be Benjamin. - she said while she took her apron off

Hello, mrs. Avery

Dylan, sweetie, why won't you show Ben your room.

Sure.

We went to my room and although I didn't consider myself a shy person I was struggling to find how the hell would I start a conversation with Ben. Finally one of us broke the ice

We're having a sort of gathering on Saturday. We're going to the lake. You should come.

Yeah. I know.

Oh, my mom told you.

No. A girl-Violet- told me.

Violet?

Yes.

You've already met violet?

Yes.

(She's some girl...)

What do you mean?

It's like, everybody knows her, but nobody really knows her.

Kind of mysterious, huh?

I guess. Guys like it. But I've known her since we were like two so I could never look at her like that.

Do you or did you have a girlfriend back where you’re from?

I was seeing someone, but it wasn't serious. Nothing worth keeping long distance, for sure. You?

Nope. Never had one. Don't intend to. I just want to live my life, enjoy the best years of my life. Girls are trouble. I only intend on getting in trouble with them, not for them to actually give me trouble.

I guess he had a point... thing is I wanted to

“So what are your plans, now?”

“I’m going to keep doing what I have always done. Built furniture. And I’ve been pushing my wife to open her own art gallery for a long time. Now that we’re here it’s a great opportunity for her to do that”

“Yes! You should (definitely) do that. We don’t have any around here. It’d be a great addition (to the town).”

“See?” My dad said looking at my mom.

“Yes, Dylan already told me you spent your honey moon here by mistake and that’s why you ended up moving here but I’d really like to know the whole story, if you don’t mind telling it.”

“Of course we don’t, dear”, my mom said with a smile

I interrupted her. “Of course she doesn’t, she loves telling this story”

My mom gave me a side eye and continued. “So, anyway… We got married really young. Actually, shortly after we met. I had just moved to Chicago for college. I was studying, I believe it was the second night at my dorm and I broke my lamp so, and because I had little to no money, I went to a second hand/antique shop to look for the cheapest one I could find. Will was working there. I don’t really believe in love at first sight so I don’t say it was it but it was pretty close. He was shy but couldn’t stop smiling at me. When I got to my dorm I saw what I quickly figured it was his phone number and called him. We set up to meet the next friday and one month or so later we were moving together to a shoe box apartment. He proposed in december and we were married in may. Neither of us consider ourselves to be religious per say so we went to the city hall and had a small party in Will’s parent’s backyard. In/on my summer break, because we didn’t have any money, didn’t have much time either and thought ourselves to be very adventurous, decided to go on a road trip. Our initial idea was to stop by a bunch of different places, staying at cosy inns, stop by beaches and have lunch and dinner in cute places but on the first day our broke down on the way to our first stop so we had to take it to a car shop to have it fixed. The town ended up being this beautiful place and we ended up loving it and staying until the rest of our honey moon. We stayed at the DIAMOND LAKE INN. Had long swims in the lake, jumped tirelessly from the tyre swig hanged in that big tree and watched every sunset in our bathing suits. It was magical, we wanted to stay forever, but I had to go back for college, obviously. We still back for a couple summers after that but then I was offered a job at the place I was doing this/an internship and I loved what I was doing so I stayed and become harder and harder to come back and when Will was born it got even harder and when we had Olivia it just became impossible so we never came back. Life just got in the way I guess… But then we just decided we didn’t want to push it anymore and just decided to come. We sold the house, (got a good price on it) bought one here and we just came. I wasn’t worried about Olivia, I was actually more afraid because of Will but I think he’ll do/he’s going to be just fine.”

“I told you she loved telling the story… It’s a big story…”

“It’s a beautiful story.”

“Thank you, honey, I think it is, too.” My mom smiled so big. I could tell she was so happy.

(...)

A violet in a field of flowers. (I don't know if that's redundant or just cliche

Maybe Both. - we smiled. - my parents say they named me violet because they fell in love here and violet was the flower my dad picked? and gave my mother when he asked her to marry him. I just think that's a better way of saying I was conceived here

Maybe both. - we smiled again

(...)

Rosie - I told you you'd find love here. - we both smiled

(...)

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