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imaginetonyandbucky · 4 years

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The Buy In

Chapter 4: 404 File Not Found

by @dracusfyre

Over the next few weeks Bucky did start to get hints of Stark’s criminal operations, at least the ones that were easy to see: the illegal gambling dens, knockoff designer bags and sunglasses, the chop shops that picked up and moved every two weeks. This was the stuff that they already knew about, though, and so far Bucky hadn’t been able to directly link Stark to any of it. Learning that Stark had an accountant was the biggest break he’d had so far, but despite his best efforts he hadn’t gotten even the hint of a name. He was so lost in thought trying to figure out a way to get deeper into Stark’s organization that he didn’t even notice that KT had stopped walking until he was already several steps away.

“What’s up?” he asked and followed KT’s gaze to the park bench where someone was sleeping, an overflowing shopping cart pulled up next to them.

“Stay here,” KT said, and went over to the bench. As Bucky watched, he squatted next to the bench. He must have said something because the person startled awake and sat up, scooting away from him. Now that the person was sitting up, Bucky could see that it was an older woman, gray hair waving in the wind. KT remained crouched, hands up, still talking. He was there long enough that Bucky looked around for a place to sit, but before he could find a seat KT handed her something and walked away. KT had his phone out and was talking on it by the time he got back to where Bucky was waiting, so Bucky walked in silence until KT hung up.

“Who was that?” he asked as KT put his phone away, looking over his shoulder at where the old woman was pushing her cart somewhere else.

“Social worker,” KT answered. “Boss keeps one on retainer.”

“Retainer?”

“Yeah. She works for the city, but the Boss pays her extra to handle the cases he sends her way. Anna there,” he said, gesturing towards the old woman, “refused to go to the shelter so I told Ms. Walker to have someone come talk to her, see if they can get her some help.” Bucky managed to not roll his eyes, though he wanted to, but he must have made some kind of noise because KT looked up at him and said, “What?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said, but KT put a hand on his arm and pulled him to a stop right there on the sidewalk.

“No, we’re going to talk about this. You’ve had an attitude whenever I talk about the Boss since you started, and I’m tired of it. Say what you want to say.”

“I just don’t get why you really believe all that stuff, about Tony Stark being in it for a little guy. ‘The mob boss with a heart of gold,’” Bucky said sarcastically. “I mean, a social worker? Really? Head start programs, scholarships, small business loans, the whole line about kicking out drug dealers - it’s all bullshit. He’s just got a hell of a PR team.”

“And there it is. I knew this was coming. You new guys are all the same.” KT gave him a scornful look. “Look, belief is for things that you don’t know are true, so no, I don’t believe all that stuff. I know it.” He took his jacket off and pulled up the sleeve on his left arm; the inside of his forearm and elbow were scarred with track marks. “My name wasn’t Kenton when I was born, it was Katie,” he said. “My parents let me stay until I was eighteen, then they kicked me out on my birthday. I spent two years on the streets, and I was one of the first people in that rehab center when it reopened. The sweet deal I mentioned that you get at the 90 day mark? It's a rent-controlled apartment and a job. With benefits, no less. Haven’t been back on the bullshit since, and now the Boss is paying for me to get a degree in social work.”

Bucky was stunned. “That’s insane,” he said as KT put his jacket back on. “I don’t…people aren’t like that in real life.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say,” KT said with a snort, and turned to keep walking. “But I think that assholes want you to think that everyone is an asshole deep down; that way you don’t get mad at them for being assholes. Because if people knew that there were good guys, like really good guys like the Boss, then no one would put up with the assholes anymore. You get me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said faintly. “It’s just…”

“I know. I had a hard time believing it, too. Kept waiting for the other shoe to fall, you know? Like, no one gives away this stuff for free. But then the Boss sat down with a bunch of us and explained the buy-in, and that’s what made me realize he was for real.”

“Is anyone ever going to explain what that means? The buy-in?”

“When you’re ready, the Boss will explain what it means.” As they walked, KT pointed out small things around the neighborhood that Bucky had noticed but not really paid much attention to: the walls covered with paint that Bucky had assumed was graffiti but was actually street art, commissioned from local high schoolers; sidewalks were power washed with no weeds in the cracks; the space between the sidewalk and the curb often had flowers rather than being a sad patch of dead dirt and litter. No broken windows, no broken street lights, playgrounds with new equipment. It wasn’t like it was suddenly a rich neighborhood, with boutique shops and craft breweries, but it was clean and safe and clearly cared for. Bucky went through the rest of the shift on autopilot, lost in thought.

That night, he couldn’t sleep for thinking about it, so finally he pulled out his computer. He hadn’t done demographic research like this since he’d studied sociology in college, but gradually the picture started to emerge. Census data, crime rates, education statistics, property values, employment rates – they all added up to a picture that was hard to argue with: there was a bubble of prosperity around the neighborhoods that Stark controlled, an effect that faded quickly beyond the de facto edge of his territory.

Bucky closed his laptop slowly and bit his lip. Some of the stuff he’d seen, like helping out the local businesses and the sex workers, could be explained as being good business sense. But for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why a mob boss would care about high school graduation rates and early childhood education. He exhaled and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“A criminal philanthropist is still a criminal,” he said to his ceiling. “Right?”

***

As the weather grew cooler, Bucky realized had been working for Stark long enough to have developed something of a routine; he worked with KT during the week, but occasionally swapped out for one of Stark’s other patsani when KT was needed for something else, then on his days off he made his way to the library to make his report to his handlers. Despite what Stark had said about him being a cop when they first met, Stark seemed willing to let him stay on the streets; Bucky figured maybe it had been a test or his idea of a joke. But the sheer normalcy of the routine meant that, despite his best efforts, he had started to relax and let down his guard. He realized just how relaxed he had gotten when he showed up to meet KT for their daily rounds and Happy was there instead, leaning against one of Stark’s cars; his mind raced over the past few days as he felt a pulse of panic that he had screwed up somehow and his cover was blown. “What’s up, Happy?” Bucky said, steps slowing as his blood ran cold.

“New gig tonight,” he said, holding a car door open for Bucky. “You’re going to be the Boss’s bodyguard.” Bucky let out a silent breath and his shoulders relaxed as the spike of fear was replaced by a quick thrill of excitement. This was the opportunity he'd been looking for.

He shrugged carelessly as he got in the car. “Anything I should know?”

“Boss will tell you what you need to know.”

Happy took him back to the garage where he’d met Stark the first time, only this time instead of the grungy mechanic, Stark looked like the Tony Stark, the capital M Mechanic that Bucky had expected to see then. He was wearing a tailored Tom Ford three piece suit, charcoal grey over a crimson collared shirt, and his jaw was clean shaven except for his trademark Van Dyke beard. He was talking to a Black man with a military bearing, but when he saw them come in he gave them a blinding smile that made Bucky’s heart skip a beat. While Bucky tried to process that unexpected development Tony pushed his glasses to the top of his head and studied Bucky with eyes that were sparkling with humor, like he'd just heard a joke he was eager to share.

“Hey, copper,” he said as Bucky approached. “New job for you. I’ve got a black tie event to go to and I need someone to watch my back, so you’re going to be my plus one.”

"Not a cop," Bucky said automatically, then he heard the rest of Stark's sentence. “Wait, plus one? I’m your date?” he said before he could stop himself.

That surprised a laugh out of Stark. The curl of his smile got sultry and intimate, and he stepped closer to Bucky, who could only stare and swallow thickly, frozen in place. “Do you want to be, Blue Eyes?” he murmured, and Bucky got goosebumps as his voice got deep and smooth. The humor in Stark's eyes turned into flicker of interest as the moment stretched like hot taffy and a denial failed to manifest. Bucky bit his lip as Stark swayed closer, and his breath stalled in his lungs Stark’s gaze flicked down to his mouth and then back up. This close, he could tell that Stark was a few inches shorter than him; if he tilted his head down and Stark tilted his head up, they could be-

“Tony,” Stark’s friend said quellingly, breaking the tension. “Stop teasing the poor man.”

Stark inhaled sharply, as if he’d forgotten they weren’t alone, and took a step back. The glasses came back down over his eyes, and by the time he turned to face his friend, the laughing smile was back in place. “You should have seen his face, Rhodey,” he said, hands in his pockets as he strolled away. “I’ve never seen a person’s brain blue screen so thoroughly before. No, Blue Eyes, you’re not my date, you’re my bodyguard.”

Bucky blew out a breath, feeling shaky for some reason, and rewound the conversation. “Black tie event, you said?” Bucky looked down at his outfit, jeans and a Henley shirt, with his old military issue boots and a jean jacket.

Tony tilted his head towards the back of the garage, not meeting his eyes. “I got your fancy duds in the bathroom back there. And a razor, though I dig the manly stubble.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rhodey said as Blue Eyes closed the door to the bathroom to get changed.

“Of course,” Tony said, keeping his voice light despite the fact that his nerves were still vibrating like a plucked string. “First of all, it’s objectively hilarious and you know it. Second, photos from this event are going to be all over the internet and I don’t want you or Happy to get that kind of press.” He looked over to see that Rhodey was watching him skeptically. “What?”

“Don’t sleep with the undercover cop.”

“I won’t.”

“Uh huh.” Somehow Rhodey’s skeptical face got more skeptical. “I saw that moment. You guys had a moment.”

“I’m not going to sleep with the undercover cop,” Tony repeated dutifully, wishing Rhodey would drop it. Because there had been a moment, a breathtakingly arousing moment that had felt as fragile as spun glass and as powerful as a hurricane; at any other time with any other person Tony would have chased that moment, that feeling, but the reminder that Blue Eyes was a cop had soured it. Now Tony wished he had a drink to wash the taste of want from his mouth. “Is Happy bringing the car around?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

The pause before Rhodey answered made it clear that he knew what Tony was doing, but instead of calling him out on it he just said, “It’s already out front.”

After a few more minutes, Tony heard the doorknob to the bathroom turning and consciously plastered an easygoing look on his face as Blue Eyes came out. It was good that Tony had a legendary poker face, because seeing Blue Eyes in a fitted suit, clean-shaven with his slightly long hair brushed back from his face, would have broken a lesser bisexual. Shaving made him look ten years younger and drew attention to his full mouth, which was currently frowning in concentration as he tried to fasten his cufflinks one-handed. A rare sense of self-preservation kept Tony from offering to help; he stuffed his hands in his pockets against the urge to reach out and run his fingers along the sharp, smooth line of Blue Eyes’ jaw.

Rhodey must have seen something in Tony’s face or posture that gave away his thoughts, because he said, “Don’t sleep with-“

“Enough, Rhodey,” Tony said under his breath. “Ready, Blue Eyes?” he said more loudly, gesturing towards the door where Happy was waiting. Blue Eyes nodded and followed him, climbing into the front seat next to Happy while Tony sat in the back.

“So where are we going?” Blue Eyes asked, turning around in the seat to look at Tony.

The reminder immediately cheered Tony up. “The Policeman’s Ball,” he said with relish, and got to see Blue Eyes’ brain 404 error for the second time that night.

#tony stark #bucky barnes #tony x bucky #winteriron #no powers au

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the-autisticats · 4 years

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Who becomes a special education teacher?

There is no singular answer to this question. When I volunteered at a school for autistic and otherwise disabled students, each teacher and aide was different. When I volunteered at an ARC adult daycare center, the staff were equally varied in their treatment of the individuals there. But there were some common threads I noticed across both locations, regardless of how different they were on the surface. And there were common threads that tied the teachers & staff together, too.

For the purposes of this post, I will be discussing my observations about the school, not the ARC adult daycare center. Also, before you continue reading, you should know that this essay will discuss suicidal ideation and sexual actions. Now, let’s continue:

Something very interesting I noticed was that the only white man I ever interacted with was the principal of the school. I’m sure there were a few white male teachers, but I never met any. The people who were with me in the aftercare classroom were all women and/or POC. This demographic data didn’t match my own school, which was only 10 minutes away. My own school had extremely few teachers of color, and had a decent amount of white male teachers. But looking back, I recall that the many of the one-on-one aides for the special education students at my school were people of color.

I’m pointing these things out because usually, jobs that women and/or POC do are systemically undervalued in society. Teaching is still seen as “women’s work,” because it’s associated with caretaking. The association with caretaking gets less intense as kids get older, which is why there are a heck of a lot more male secondary school teachers than there are male elementary school teachers. According to the National Center for Education Statistics (in the US), only 11% of elementary school teachers are male, whereas 36% of secondary school teachers are.

When you look at the stats on special education teachers as a whole, 86.3% are female (meaning that 13.7% are male). Despite being significantly outnumbered, the average salary for a male special education teacher is $53,855, which is $8,393 more than the average female salary of $45,462.

Then, looking at the statistics for one-on-one aides, things get even more stark. Almost 89% of paraprofessionals are female, and the average female classroom aide makes only $19,927 per year, compared to male classroom aides who make $26,453 per year. Referring to the previous paragraph, notice the significant gap between what the teachers are paid, versus what the aides are paid. There are also many more POC aides than POC special education teachers. Only 16.8% of special education teachers are POC, whereas 24.3% of aides are POC. (I did those calculations based on US census bureau data)

Okay, so we’ve discussed the demographics, the pay gaps, and the racial disparities. Keep in mind that the vast majority of people in these jobs are also neurotypical, and that all of the teachers and aides where I volunteered were neurotypical as well. Now, I’m going to discuss the pervasive ableism and problematic attitudes that existed at the school, keeping in mind all of the sociological factors that have contributed to these people feeling that they are not valued in society for the work that they do.

The culture of the school I worked at was what one might expect. The teachers mostly cared about the students, and were pleasant to talk to. But there were some things I noticed that weren’t particularly pleasant or enjoyable:

Most of the time, the teachers and aides talked about the students in the 3rd person, as if they weren’t in the room. Even if the students in question could speak clearly, they were still treated as though they could not contribute any meaningful input to a conversation. The problem was even worse for students who couldn’t speak. They were all referred to in the 3rd person, discussed by staff, and speculated about without any regard for the fact that they probably understood everything that was being said about them. I tried my very best not to engage in this behavior when spoken to (teachers would try to involve me in their conversations about the students), but in order to mask and protect my position as a volunteer, I couldn’t speak up about the issue or do anything to stop it.

Many of the teachers obviously didn’t want to be there, and didn’t like their jobs. There was one teacher in particular, I don’t remember her name, who would even “joke” about committing suicide right after a student did something mildly disruptive. She would vocally express (right in front of the students!) how much she hated her job, hated herself, and hated her life. She was at least 50 years old, and often turned to me (I was only 17 at the time) to vent and rant in distress about how awful everything was and how much she wished for retirement. This was incredibly uncomfortable to me, and probably very damaging to the students, but it was also something I couldn’t really do anything about given my unofficial status at the school.

Students were not given any intellectually stimulating activities to do in the after school program. This was a particular problem for one autistic student named Matt, who I could tell was bored out of his mind. To quell his boredom, he peeled the paper label off of crayons, peeled the name stickers off of other students’ desks, ripped up pieces of construction paper, stole food from the snack bin and shoveled it into his mouth when the teachers weren’t paying close attention, and masturbated in the middle of the classroom. That last part is something nobody had prepared me for when I started volunteering there. In fact, it seems to be something nobody in the special education world talks about at all. The only other person I’ve talked to about it until now is Laurel. And yes, it caught me off guard. But I very easily understood why all of this was happening- Matt was seeking intense sensory input to replace his boredom.

Sometimes his aide gave him picture books to read out loud, which he did. But when he was finished and said “Done!” his aide just told him to read it again. The only times I had seen him truly happy and engaged were the times that he was allowed to play the keyboard. Matt was an amazingly talented musical artist. I was shocked when I first heard him play- not because he’s autistic, but because the composition he was creating was worthy of being played in Carnegie Hall. During the days he had access to the keyboard, his sensory seeking and anxious behaviors significantly decreased. He sang along to the tune of the songs he created (they were extremely catchy), and chewed on a red chewy that was clipped to his shirt. He didn’t bite his hands, rip up his gloves, or ask to “go to the bathroom.”

Yet, he usually wasn’t allowed to use the keyboard. The reason I overheard was that the music teacher was afraid he would break it. And yes, he did have a history of throwing things during meltdowns, which I witnessed. So it was possible that he might try to throw the keyboard, too. But what nobody except me seemed to understand was that his meltdowns only happened on the days when he wasn’t given access to the keyboard. He was calmest when playing it.

These were the ways that each student was failed. They were treated as less than human, as non-thinking and non-understanding. Teachers spoke openly, in front of the students, about how much they hated their jobs. The knowledge and skills of students were severely underestimated. Students like Matt were not provided with real books, real intellectual challenges, or the ability to fully express themselves creatively.

And quite honestly, not all of that was purely a function of ableism. It was also a function of the socioeconomic status of the teachers, and the ways they were unappreciated, undervalued, and underserved by society at large. When these teachers and aides aren’t given proper tools and resources to understand and assist autistic people, they will inevitably fail. When classrooms don’t have enough books, when teachers have to buy their own art supplies, and when there’s only one keyboard in the entire school, the students aren’t going to get their needs met. When the school is understaffed, people are working overtime to pay for their mortgage, and teachers have to stop meltdowns during their lunch breaks, they’re bound to have negative attitudes about their jobs and lives in general.

The solution to this problem is two-fold: start funding the important work of educating and caring for disabled people, and start creating seminars and workshops for these teachers to learn about disability from the perspective of disabled self-advocates, so that they will be best equipped to serve their students’ needs.

I hope that dream becomes a reality someday.

~Eden🐢

#actually autistic #autism #autistic #aba therapy #ableism #autismacceptance #special education #special education teacher

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 4 years

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you feel like home

Post-4.01 fic, includes episode spoilers. After the census and Schneider's big announcement, Penelope tries to come to terms with what her life will look like once she's truly alone. Her efforts do not go as planned, especially once Schneider has more news she wasn't expecting.

Penelope x Schneider, ODAAT. available on ao3 with extra author’s notes.

She held on tight to the bigger questions that had been piling up since Victor’s wedding, when Schneider left her sitting alone in the middle of a perfectly nice conversation. When she watched him and Avery dance as though nothing ever broke between them.

Aren’t you supposed to avoid huge, sudden changes in your life? She wanted to ask him. It can’t really be that simple to start over, can it? Do you miss me as much I miss you?

Ever since Census Brian stopped by her apartment, it felt like the whole world was conspiring to make Penelope feel more alone than she had before. Even when she first separated from Victor, there were parts of her life that kept her focused, that distracted her...that didn’t feel quite like this.

She’d had the kids to look after, her mother to argue with, and Schneider striding into her house at all hours. New job, new empty bed, new medication she resented having to take.

But now she was 42, and her life was settled. Her Mami was proud of her, in her own complicated way. Elena was waiting for college acceptance letters and Alex had a girlfriend. Penelope had never been better at her work, and she might be lonely, but she was used to the loneliness.

Nothing about this was new--so she didn’t know why it was bugging her as much as it was.

She found herself thinking about the year 2030 a lot, not as some abstract concept but as a specific point in time that felt like it was coming right for her. Elena would be in her late twenties, probably far away, and Alex would be independent, too. They wouldn’t need her as much, if at all.

Penelope would like to believe that her Mami would still be behind her curtain, as vibrant and healthy as ever, but she was an NP. She knew time had already been kinder to Lydia Riera than lots of people her age. What were the odds she would stay that lucky?

And then there was Schneider.

It took her a few days after the census to realize she hadn’t even included him in her mental picture of what 2030 would look like.

That was for the best, Penelope thought. He was already visiting less since his reunion with Avery, and now that his girlfriend would be moving in....she doubted that would mean the two of them spending extra time with the family.

They had invited Avery over a lot in the beginning, but she rarely tagged along with Schneider for dinners or game night. Schneider only came down for morning coffee these days if he woke up alone, and Penelope didn’t know if that was because the duo preferred his fancy espresso machine when they were together or if Avery was actually avoiding them.

Whatever the reason, Penelope missed him. She could admit that to herself. But she refused to interfere with Schneider’s happiness, so she wouldn’t be admitting it to him. She texted him more instead, checking in, asking after his AA meetings or wondering if he would make it to movie night.

Aren’t you supposed to avoid huge, sudden changes in your life? She wanted to ask him. It can’t really be that simple to start over, can it? Do you miss me as much I miss you?

It was lonely, Schneider’s absence at the dinner table or on their couch. Especially because no one else in the family seemed to feel it. Her kids were dating, and her mom had whatever platonic thing was still happening with Dr. Berkowitz. Everyone was growing outwards from the roots of their family, and she knew that was how things should be.

Growth was good. Change was healthy. Nobody was doing this to abandon her.

It sucked anyway.

So as 2030 crept into her thoughts whenever she had a spare moment to feel the anxiety and strange sense of grief that heralded her soon-to-be empty nest, Penelope deliberately imagined a Schneider who settled down upstairs with Avery, and kept drifting away.

In ten years, he would be the best friend who was reachable when she really needed him, but not around most of the time. He and Avery would get married, a picture-perfect couple. Maybe they’d stay upstairs, but they probably wouldn’t. He would lease his place to another hipster and they’d move somewhere more upscale to start a family, or adopt purebred dogs, or whatever rich people did when they had endless money and time.

Penelope tried to accept that picture, feel it like it was real, so she could get used to it. She wanted to embed it deep in her heart, where it wouldn’t be able to hurt her as much when it happened.

It made her feel like she had lost Schneider already.

And that left her raw and open and unprepared for his midnight text a few weeks later, asking her to come upstairs.

****

Penelope offered a quick and grateful prayer to the God she only kind of believed in when he opened his door and he wasn’t visibly drunk. She was still waiting for the next relapse--it had only been five months. A part of her might always be waiting for the next relapse.

“Hey, Pen,” he said, stepping back to let her in.

She sat on his couch, realizing as he joined her that his place looked different. Emptier. Less...bright.

Penelope hadn’t visited as often lately; with Avery living there too, boundaries seemed more important. But she knew that the art missing from his walls had been an Avery purchase. Primary colors, splashes and curving lines that probably cost thousands of dollars.

The scarves and hats Avery always seemed to have draped everywhere--chairs, counters, wall hooks--were gone too. The entire apartment was less colorful now.

So was Schneider.

Even his blue eyes looked a little grey tonight, Penelope thought. And asking him felt cruel, when it was obvious what happened. But she knew talking would help.

“Avery moved out,” he said before she got the chance to broach things gently. “A couple hours ago, they picked up the last of her things. I haven’t been able to sleep."

Penelope held herself steady as Schneider leaned against her, staring blankly forward. “I knew you would come. Thanks for that.”

“Whenever you need me,” she reminded him. “I wouldn’t have promised it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” he thought out loud after a few moments of silence. “I won’t keep you long, I know you have an early schedule on Wednesdays.”

She blinked, trying to remember if she had told him that. They’d talked so rarely lately, it didn’t seem likely. But Schneider keeping tabs on her wasn’t new--in fact, it was the most familiar and comforting reminder of their friendship she had felt in a while.

“That doesn’t matter,” she told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”

“Did you call Nick?”

“Yeah. I called him after we broke up this morning. The movers took a while,” he added.

“Ah. So she didn’t just...move out.”

“No.” He sighed. “I thought this would bring us closer, but somehow it did the exact opposite. The more time we spent together, the more it didn’t work, and we tried harder to make it work and that just made it hurt more.”

“Oh, Schneider.” Breakups were always hard, but this was his first serious relationship. Of course he fought to keep it; of course he was devastated to lose it again. She reached for his hand and held tight.

“Yeah. Today we were having this stupid fight about scrambled eggs, and both of us sort of stopped in between the yelling and looked around, like what are we even doing right now? And so we stopped yelling, and we talked. About everything since she moved in: how she didn’t want to play games or watch movies with you guys, how scared she is that I’ll relapse and how unprepared she was to live with a recovering alcoholic. About the life she knows she wants eventually, and the one I really don’t.”

Penelope was still holding his hand, but she tried not to squeeze harder on instinct. “Does Avery want kids?”

Schneider shook his head, and she exhaled. “No, it’s not that.”

He knew her, though. Schneider let go of her hand to wrap an arm around her, a silent show of support while he continued.

“She liked that I had real world skills, that I’m more than just another rich guy--but she likes her money, too. Even though it makes her feel guilty. I guess she thought that eventually we were going to move on from this place, and this version of my life, and into one that was more like hers. Ballrooms and regattas and the stuff I tried to get away from.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that. She’d be lying if she said she was surprised. But Schneider didn’t need an I told you so. Penelope settled for the truth.

“That sucks, Schneider. I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” she added, with the wisdom of experience and the affection of friendship.

“Sure,” he agreed, his temple resting against the top of her head. The hopelessness underneath his agreement broke her heart.

“You will be,” she insisted. “It’ll take time, but you’ll see."

“No offense, Pen,” Schneider said quietly, “but you were still hoping to have a future with Max a couple of months ago. If you weren’t over him two years after you broke up, I don’t see sunny skies ahead.”

Penelope turned to face him. “Well, you don’t have to. I can see them for you, until you do. And in the meantime, you won’t be alone.”

“Remember that, okay?” She pulled him into a hug. “You’ve got us, always. You’ve got me. And I know what it’s like to survive a terrible breakup.”

Schneider was hugging back, his cheek against her hair. His breath tickled her ear when he replied. “It wasn’t terrible. That’s the worst part. It was barely...anything. Like we used all our feelings up.”

“Pobrecito,” she murmured, rubbing his back and holding on. There was no cure for heartache. And it would be tougher for Schneider, going through it sober again, she thought.

The decision was an easy one--she made it without even considering other options.

“All right,” she said, sitting back up. “You’re staying with us tonight.”

“Pen--”

“No arguments. I won’t hear it, Schneider. This is what family is for. Let’s go.”

The hint of a smile he gave her was barely there, but it was more than she’d seen since she arrived, and Penelope considered it progress.

****

She texted her mom while Schneider grabbed a few things, and Lydia was awake and waiting for them when they arrived downstairs.

“Sit,” she told Schneider. “I will fix you a little something.”

“Lydia, it’s super late. Let’s all just go back to bed.”

“You will sleep better fed,” she chided him. “And I will sleep better if you are fed. You were not at lunch or dinner.”

He sank into the couch, giving up. “Well, then. Thanks.”

Penelope watched as Schneider closed his eyes and relaxed. She knew she had made the right call--now, he was home. With her Mami fussing over him and the kids to look forward to seeing over breakfast in the morning, maybe he really would sleep.

“Lupita,” her Mami said, “You should rest now. I am here.”

She nodded, eyes on Schneider for a few moments longer. Penelope couldn’t have said what she was looking for, but she found it when he seemed to feel her attention and straightened up.

“Your mom’s right, Pen. Go to bed.”

She knew he was remembering the same things she was: his last breakup with Avery, the last time she wasn’t paying close enough attention to his pain, their last long hug on a couch while she tried to comfort him.

“I’ll be right here,” Schneider assured her.

“Good.” The soft, single word was full of all those memories, and fears she only shared with her support group friends. She nodded at them both as she exited to her room.

Exhaustion hit as soon as Penelope shut the door behind her. She had managed to keep it at bay while Schneider needed her, but now it was back, ready to tug her into sleep. She settled into bed, comforted by the faint sounds of her mom fussing over her best friend, and was nearly unconscious when a realization joined the fatigue running through her.

She might not be alone in 2030 after all, her mind whispered. Schneider might still be beside her.

And if that was still a possibility, what would that look like? Without her kids to treat him like a goofy friend, or her mom to treat him like a second son, where would that leave her and Schneider? What would their relationship look like?

What did she want it to look like?

She hadn’t had to think about that, when he was living in bliss with Avery. She hadn’t had to examine the fuzzy edges where her feelings blurred around missing him, and try to understand what they meant.

Now, lying in her dark room alone, it was a picture as clear as the ones Schneider turned into photo puzzles of her family.

By the time the next census came around, Penelope wanted Schneider in the picture with her. Fully. No Photoshop.

She was in love with her best friend.

#alvareider #odaat #penelope x schneider #one day at a time #odaat spoilers #alvareider fic #odaat fic #spoilers #my fic

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ssixa · 4 years

Text

Chance Encounter//Mark Tuan x Y/N

Description: Walking into the night shift at the hospital proves to keep you on your toes. Nights are left to the universe so you can only hope that tonight will be decent. What happens when you find out that one of your patients is THE Mark Tuan from GOT7? how do you try to deal with the chaos erupting from this chance encounter? and how many times do you have to tell yourself that you love your job?

Genre: fluff, slight cringe

Pairing: Black Fem ReaderxMark Tuan (though I will say there isn’t much description of black characteristics)

Word count: 4.4K

Warning: explicit language

A/n: uploading this while I’m in the middle of lecture. Nothing crazy to add though. I was trying to be more specific with the collage, but why is it so hard to find a picture of an actual black woman arm?! (this will most definitely make sense when you read this chapter lol). I really try not to use the same photos twice, but it happens. hope y’all enjoy chapter 3!

*All pic collages are made by me unless I state otherwise. Individual pictures in the collage are not mine and I give credit to where credit is due.

Chapter 3

For shifts being 12 hours long, they always seem to go by quickly. Fortunately, this shift was one of them. Nothing else crazy happened the rest of the shift. More flirting from Mr. Tuan, more me getting slightly flustered by it, got in an argument with a confused elderly patient who...well...it’s too long to explain, actually got to eat dinner, etc. Before I knew it, it was 6:50am. I was finishing up on my last bit of charting when I heard the patient phone at the desk go off. I groveled because I was hoping it wasn’t one of my patient’s who needed something extensive done. I got up and headed to the phone. I checked the screen and saw a room number I know all too well...Mr. Tuan. I answer the phone,

“How may I help you?” I question just like I do any other patient.

“Oh, I was wondering if I could get a cup of coffee” he says politely.

“Sure! how many creamers and sugars” I respond.

“Um, how about 3 creamers and 6 sugars?” he responds giddily.

“Coming right up” I speak up happily. Maybe a little too happily because all I receive is a giggle at the end. I’m just happy that the request wasn’t anything major that involved me having to leave super late like I normally do. It definitely isn’t that Mark’s face would be the last face (of my patients) I would see before going home. I head to the pantry where the snacks and juices are located. I remember the nurses mentioning making a fresh pot of coffee a little while earlier, while I prefer my red bull. I grab a little styrofoam cup, fill it up with coffee, grab the requested amount of creamers and sugars, and head to Mark’s room.

I reach Mark’s room and proceed to knock. I make my way in and I’m greeted by a bright smile so early in the morning, the poor guy looked tired though. The one of a few downsides of night shift is having to wake up patients while they sleep. I know I’m angry when someone wakes me up from my slumber, so I try to be as polite to them when I go into their rooms at 3am in the morning. I set the coffee, creamers, and sugars down on the table and pull the table across him so it’s an easier reach; and also that breakfast would be served soon so there won’t be much to do for the people bringing the food.

Once I set down everything, I look to Mark who just has a tired smile on his face.

I begin brightly, “hope you enjoy your coffee Mr. Taun.”

He looked at me with such a calm look, I guess he was done with the flirting from doing it all night. He comments,

“You seem happy to see me so early in the morning”, maybe I jumped the broom to think he was done with the flirting.

“Well I’m happy that I get to go home in a few minutes and sleep until coming back tonight. Also the fact that your request isn’t something to keep me here for a long time” I reply happily.

“So, you’re coming back tonight? Do you ever get enough sleep?” he questions.

“I do, but luckily I only work weekend nights so my sleep schedule doesn’t get super messed up.”

“Oh so you at least get the week off, that’s good” he says earnestly.

“Well, kinda. I have another job I work during the week and on Saturday mornings. So I end up going from there, then home for a little while, then come here for the night” I reply nonchalantly.

“Do you ever rest? You must be tired a lot” he says slightly concerned.

“Well look who’s talking Mr. Idol” I laugh.

“Yeah you have a point, but just make sure not to push yourself too much. I can at least vouch the damage exhaustion can do” he solemnly replies.

“Don’t worry, once fall starts I won’t be working as much because of school” I say.

“You’re in school too! You’re insane you know that right haha” he laughs.

“And like I said before, look who’s talking Mr. Idol” I laugh along. I don’t understand why he’s so worried when everyone who knows idol life knows how hard and tiresome it is. It’s sweet though. I look at my watch and see it’s already 7am.

“Well mr. Tuan, I have to go now, my bed is calling for me. I’ll probably see you later tonight” I state walking towards the door. He looks at me with slight confusion,

“Are you not going to be my tech tonight?”

“What? will you miss me if I’m not?” I say sarcastically

“Yes…” I hate when he does that. He gets so serious all of the sudden and I know he’s just trying to mess with me, well not this time pretty boy.

“Oh yeah sure, I bet you’ll just miss teasing me. I only say that ‘probably’ because they could switch my rooming assignments, but to be honest, that rarely ever happens with me since I only work two shifts back to back” I conclude. For a second I thought I saw a slight smile, what a weird dude. We say our sorta last goodbye and I leave the room. Though it’s been an exciting and yet weird shift, I’m just happy to be finally going home.

~Later That Day~

Back again for another shift. Everything is the same as last night and previous shifts. When I check the census, I see that I have one less patient. I guess someone was discharged during the day, good, one less person to look after. I make my way around my rooms, happily greeting my patients who are happy and surprised to see me back again. Then I reach Mark’s room, yet again, a couple deep breaths and my knuckles hit the wooden door. I walk in and I’m greeted by a soft smile...wow...didn’t realize how I missed that smile within a short amount of time. This whole thing is still so surreal to me.

I see that the manager’s back, but luckily no death glares this time. He actually looks at me pleasantly and I look at Mark,

“Um, Mr. Tuan, did you tell your manager something about me? He doesn’t look like he wants to kill me like he looked yesterday”I question slightly side eyeing the manager.

“Oh, I just told him how great you were last night, even put up with my annoyingness. He found it impressive that anyone could put up with me for 12 hours straight that wasn’t him, other managers, and the members” he laughed.

“That makes a lot more sense, I’m glad then. Honestly though, I still see you as the quiet member even though there are plenty of videos that truly prove the opposite” I mention.

“Yeah, I’m still pretty introverted though. The members really bring out my goofy side” he scoffs. I can tell that his members really mean a lot to him, it’s really in the eyes. The small glint I saw in his eyes for just a second, it was really...beautiful. y/n, this isn’t the time. I continue on with the typical routine where I get his vitals and ask the same questions. I even asked his manager if he wanted anything and he asked for a cup of coffee; no problem there. Since I wanted to get more on his good side, I decided to get it for him and add in some graham crackers with it (nice touch y/n).

Mark watched as I gave his manager the requested item plus the bonus gift. He smirks,

“Really? I don’t recall him asking for crackers. Someone’s trying to make a good impression, but why don’t you treat me that nicely? When I asked for coffee this morning, you really only just brought what I asked” he whined with puppy dog eyes.

“First, you got me on his good side so I would love to keep it that way. Also the fact that he has to keep tabs on you and the other 6 members, I feel for him. So of course I would like to show my appreciation towards him. He must also really be worried about you...ya know” I say shyly. Thank goodness I’m wearing a mask…

“M-my y-y/n is so caring” Mark fake sobs. I roll my eyes at the over acting. For someone so quiet and yet so loud, Mark will never make any sense to me. I continue on with small talk, but excuse myself to finish up my vital roundings. I say goodbye to Mark and the manager and be on my way.

I had a gut feeling that tonight’s shift wasn’t going to go as smoothly as last night’s. It always happens that way unfortunately. Though I had one patient discharge during the day shift, I gained two more meaning my section was close to its max. One particular new patient had some extra strength for being elderly; she would make a great teammate on a kickball team. While the nurse was trying to get her info and do her duty to get her fully admitted she started kicking and screaming. Another nurse came to help and I entered the room not long after. It was quite the sight though, both nurses having to hold down the limbs of the patient. I told the other nurse that I got it and she would be ok to leave since this technically wasn’t her patient to deal with. She nodded and I took her position holding the patient’s legs.

An intense stare off between my new patient and I was a battle I knew I could win. I could tell by her eyes, and because I got a report on her from the nurse before she arrived, that she wasn't all there in the head. As the nurse started putting the restraints on our new patient, I slowly let go of her legs because it seemed she had calmed down a bit, boy oh boy was that a mistake. Only about a minute after letting go of her legs do I find a foot flying in my direction. I managed to shield my face with my forearm and block it, but I knew a bruise would be forming there pretty soon and my arm would be sore for a while. I wince in pain, but managed to grab her legs again until we would be able to restrain her. The nurse looked at me and began to ask,

“y/n you ok? That looked like a nasty hit” said the nurse.

“Yeah I’m fine, I just know I shouldn’t push myself for a while” I say to her. She looked and nodded in agreement. She double checks my arm to make sure nothing is out of place and deems I should be alright. I thanked her, asked if there was anything she needed me to do and she said no. I walked out and went to sit at one of the computers to try and clear my mind. After a little while I decided it was best to get some ice and some gauze to wrap and cool off my hurt arm to reduce any possible swelling that could occur. By the time I was done, I saw it was about the time for me to check up on my patients and to see if they needed anything. I made my way room to room while keeping the small ice pack on my arm. Fortunately, I was able to keep it hidden from the majority of the patients (some were asleep at this point anyways)...key word is majority. When I got to Mark’s room, I knocked slightly afraid he would be asleep and I didn’t want to wake him. He was awake, of course, and talking on the phone. When he heard me open the door he turned his head and smiled,

“Hey y/n, great timing! I’m chatting with the members, do you want to say hi?” he asked. This I was very grateful for since the last time was very much a surprise.

“Um sure, as long as I’m not interrupting anything” I say softly.

“Nah, they never do anything that important or they wouldn’t be talking to me” he laughed. The laughing quickly halted when he noticed the ice pack on my arm.

“y/n, what happened to your arm?” he questions, unable to take his eyes off my injured arm.

“Oh nothing to worry about” I smile and wave the hand of the injured arm. Big mistake. I slightly winced a bit and put the ice pack right back down on the arm. Mark mutes the facetime call and flips his phone over. He grabs my arm to bring it closer to him and again I slightly wince in pain.

“y/n...what happened?” he deadpanned.

“Honestly it’s nothing, one of my new patients just has a killer kick for being in her 80s. It’s fine, but unfortunately no bath for you tonight” I laughed, but he didn’t. He looks a bit concerned, but I try my best to brush off his worries.

“Mr. Tuan I promise it’s nothing serious. In retrospect, I should be the one worried about you given I’m a fan” I say trying to make light of the moment. It partially works, but I know the worry is still there.

“y/n you don’t have to worry about the bath. The doctor came by and said I could move around with some assistance so I’ll just hop into the shower chair. Luckily, I don’t think I’ll plan a shower for tonight...it’s not like I’ve done much but sit here” he laughed lightly. I smiled glad he was over it, but forgot he was still kinda holding onto my arm.

“Um Mr. Tuan, you’re still kinda holding on to my arm and if you don’t mind I would like to put the ice pack back on it before any possible swelling occurs” I laugh. His eyes grow big, fully forgetting that he has a hold of my arm. He lets go quickly and the room is filled with an awkward silence. Well, almost silent. We started hearing noises and I started getting a little creeped out because...night shift. That’s when I remembered,

“Mr. Tuan I would’ve hoped to have befriended your group members by now. You might want to show you're still alive before they think I did something to you” I laugh. He realizes the whole purpose of me being in the room was that I get to talk to his members. He flipped the phone back over and un-muted it,

“Hey~ sorry idiots, I had to talk to y/n about something” Mark started.

“Who you callin an idiot...idiot” BamBam replied almost instantly. Wow so he really is this extra even when not around fans and cameras huh.

“So are we going to get to meet her or what?” Yugyeom blurts out in Korean. I laugh a little at how childish this giant is. Mark turns the camera to me and I’m met with five faces I’ve grown to know since debut.

“Hi~ I’m y/n and I’m such a big fan! Like this is honestly crazy, though I would’ve loved to meet y’all in a different situation” I relay softly.

“AYE WASSUP y/n!!” Jackson screams

“Jackson you’re too loud, but hello y/n it is nice to finally meet you” Jinyoung says with a sweet motherly smile. I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, this is all super crazy.

As I continue to receive warm greetings from the five I realize there’s someone missing. I look to Mark and whisper,

“Where’s JB?”

He roles his eyes and proceeds with

“He had some songs he was working on so he couldn’t join” he replied.

“Wow she really must be head over heels for JB huh?” I hear Jackson comment. I panic slightly,

“I was just wondering where he was, I would’ve wondered the same about any of y’all if a person wasn’t here!” I ramble.

“...wait, but how---Mr. Tuan you didn’t!!” I look at Mark with daggers that're sharper than any needle. He raised his arms up in defensive mode quickly and rebutted,

“I promise I didn’t say anything! I learned my lesson last time so I kept my mouth shut I promise!” he said hysterically, but trying to laugh away the situation. I keep the daggers on him until I hear someone speak up in Korean

“JB was actually texting us and bragging about how he’s your favorite member and your favorite idol overall” Youngjae speaks up laughingly. I look at Mark and he translates what Youngjae just said, but I find it hard to believe.

“Jackson is Mr. Tuan translation right or will I have to make his hospital stay longer?” I said evilly.

“No, his translation was right, JB was bragging about it in the group chat” Jackson said irritatedly. I was shocked, like I can’t believe my bias was this excited that I’m one of his fans.

“But on your favorite list, what place am I on there sweetheart?” he smirked. Really, this again? And paired with the smirk too...Lord help me.

“Umm~ are you sure you want to know?” I question.

“You and I are tied Jackson. She’s been a fan of Markson so you can tell she’s been around for a while” Mark interjects.

“I’m pretty sure he asked me the question, Markipoo~”I roll my eyes

“I told you not to call me that!!” he grumbled. Laughter filled the room from me and the boys on the facetime call.

“OMG she knows about the nickname!!” BamBam exclaimed. All the boys had tears welling up in their eyes. I couldn’t help but laugh along too, though I had to keep my voice down. Not that I would get in trouble, but I’m at work so I don’t want to seem like I’m just hanging out too much. Then again, I’m done with all my duties for a while so it’s not too crazy to stay here for a little while.

“But, Mark is right. JB is my favorite member, but Mark and Jackson are tied for second. Even then, apart from JB being my favorite member that doesn’t mean I love y’all any less. I think I would equally pass out if I met any of y’all in real life” I mention.

“Well?” Jinyoung questions

“Well...what?” I asked back confused.

“You’re not passed out” Yugyeom finished.

“Haha, well at this point I don’t think I could be surprised by Mr. Tuan anymore” I laugh tiredly. I could tell they wanted me to continue given their curious looks.

“Well, first I didn’t even know it was this Mark Tuan that was my patient last night. He also tended to be a big flirt and joker throughout my shift last night. Then, though I was grateful, he rudely surprised me with a video call with JB. Then I came back in here, but fortunately he at least offered to tell me ahead of time that I would get to talk to you all. So though I’m still a bit nervous getting to meet y’all, I’m beyond the moon right now” I conclude. Wasn’t sure if all I just said made sense, but luckily Mark jumps in to translate to the members that are less fluent in English. Thank goodness to Mark. A chorus of ah’s made their way into the room when Mark finished explaining which signaled an understanding.

The conversation continued on naturally until I heard the intercom come on,

“Hey y/n room 123 needs some assistance whenever you’re available” the nurse said.

“Okie dokie, thanks. I’ll head there now” I reply.

“Well looks like duty calls, it was so nice meeting you all finally!” I continue on happily.

“Awe, bye y/n! Hope we can meet again soon!” Youngjae says. The boys follow with similar melodic phrases as we both said our goodbyes.

As I was walking out, I say my last goodbye to Mark and that I would be back later when I made my rounds for vitals.

“Okay, see you later sweetie” Mark joked.

“Yeah yeah whatever” I roll my eyes, exiting the room with a smile. That boy is such a headache sometimes, I swear. Welp, I better go help this patient. I know exactly what this patient’s deal is so I know to hurry because they need to get up to use the bathroom.

*Mark’s POV*

“Sweetheart huh?” Jackson raises an eyebrow.

“Oh shut up, Jackson. That’s how I’ve been messing with her this whole time, though it seems like she’s used to it by now” Mark speaks up.

“Yeah~ sure, but we’ve never known you to flirt like that especially without other fans and cameras around because at that point you would be forced to. Does our Markipoo have a crush?” Jinyoung taunts.

“You would think I would get more respect as the oldest” Mark sighs

“Haha nope, never” BamBam grins.

“But really Mark, you sure you're not seeing y/n any other way. Your eyes seem to tell something different” Jackson brings up.

“I promise it’s nothing, being here is really boring so y/n is just simple entertainment. Really, you should’ve seen her reactions when we first met” Mark says laughingly.

“Ok bro, just checking to make sure” BamBam replies.

*y/n’s POV*

The rest of the shift goes by not as eventfully as the earlier in the shift, but what shift goes by without a bit of craziness. I reach the end of the shift and I’m sitting down at the computer catching up on some back charting.

“How do I always get caught in this situation? Ugh, I’m going to be here for a while” I mumbled under my breath. Next thing I hear is the patient phone ringing. I cringe just knowing very well it’s one of my patients...it always is. I head to grab the phone and look back at the screen to see the room.

“This boy is amazingly attentive” I laugh to myself. Of course it’s Mark calling. I pick up the phone and answer in my best customer service voice,

“How can I help you?” I answer.

“It’s almost like you wait for my call, do you wanna hear my voice that much?” Mark says.

“Mr. Tuan did you need something?”

“Oh ok, I just wanted another cup of coffee” he says in a small voice.

“Haha ok coming right up, 3 creamers and 6 sugars right? ” I question.

“Yup, good memory” he laughs.

“Why thank you, sir” I laugh and hang up the phone. Yet again happy that the request isn’t too crazy, I head to the pantry once again. I grab the coffee, creamers, and sugars once again. I think to myself that maybe the manager will be back again like yesterday evening so I decided to grab another cup of coffee. I head to Mark’s room and knock lightly. I leave one cup outside the door in case the manager wasn’t there (I know I could just give Mark the other cup, but nah). As I make my way in I’m met with pleasant smiles from Mark and the manager as well. I take a slight step back to grab the coffee I have sitting outside the room and handed one to Mark and the other to the manager.

Both faces were garnished with bigger smiles than when I walked in and it was honestly satisfying. Not gonna lie, nothing more satisfying then making people happy. I greet the manager and he greets me back. Mark sparks up the conversation while instead of me leaving to finish up my charting, I sign into the computer to finish up (thank goodness for this system sometimes). Mark continues,

“So how was your night?” Mark asked curiously

“Good, that new patient that gave me the wicked kick didn’t cause me any disturbance last night” I laughed.

Staring down at my arm, Mark asks “Oh yeah! Speaking of which, how is your arm?”

“Still hurts a bit, but nothing a little otc (over the counter) meds can’t handle” I reply.

“That’s good, I hope you don’t push yourself too much with that arm,” he says thoughtfully. I smile to myself, also thankful that I’m yet again black and wearing a mask because Mark would see how red my face would be. Sometimes I hate how he’s still able to mess with me even when he doesn’t intend to intentionally.

“I won't, I won’t, thanks for the worry though” I say with a small smile.

“This is your last shift right? I remember you telling me you only work weekend nights” he brings up.

“Oh yeah it is, but as I tell all my patients on Monday mornings, ‘if I don’t see you next weekend, it was very nice getting to be your tech and I surely hope you’re not here when I’m back because who would want to be stuck in a hospital?’” I remark.

“Haha nice, but I’ll miss teasing you. Besides that, you’re very good at your job so props to you” he relays kindly.

“Hahaha thanks, but you know what I would really love? Is to see you boys at a concert! A sis too broke to get good seats AND plane tickets along with everything else” I fake whine as I sign out of the computer being happy that I’m done with the charting as well. Mark laughed understanding how it could be frustrating, but also knowing he doesn’t have the ability to decide where the group tours.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll have to see,” he laughs. I laugh along as well, but it struck me that this would be the last time I would get to talk with Mark. It was expected obviously, but could you blame a girl. This isn’t a new feeling because it tends to happen whenever I get close to patients, Mark just so happens to be one I’ve known for years, even if he had just heard of me Saturday night.

We say our last farewells since it was 7am. It’s unfortunate, but it is what it is. I head towards the door and turn around one last time. A slight smile graces both Mark and I’s face,

“Have a good day Mr. Tuan” I say.

“Have a good life y/n” he replies with a soft smile.

Previous/Next

#got7 fanfic #got7 scenarios #got7 jinyoung #got7 yugyeom #got7 jaebum #got7 mark #got7 bambam #got7 jackson #got7 youngjae #hospital #patient care #kpop fluff #kpop smut

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the-world-behind-us · 3 years

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Hey friends,

I come with a message to say, DO WHAT YOU WANT TO DO IN YOUR LIFE.

Now of course this comes to an extent. By doing what you want to do, I don’t necessarily mean laze around your house for the rest of your life, or any extreme activities. I mean in terms of what you want to accomplish in your life, career wise. A few weeks ago, I chose to withdraw from my university course because I felt as though it wasn’t the right choice for me. I had chosen to do agriculture, but I realised already after the first day, it wasn’t meant for me. Not doing science in high school really threw me off and everybody else seemed as though they knew what they were doing. I cried on my first day of uni in the evening because I couldn’t understand biology. It sounds sorta pathetic, but I felt so damn useless. Why couldn’t I get it like everybody else? Oh wait, it’s because nearly everybody did bio in high school. Look, I did try to get it. I binged on Khan Academy videos about cell biology and tried reading the prescribed textbook (though it didn’t help that much).

So, I talked to one of my friends that I made at uni about my dilemma. To my surprise, she was quite okay with me hating the course and was supportive of me to change courses. My parents were thankfully understanding and knew why I couldn’t keep up with it.

Here’s the thing, I don’t think you should do a university degree in a specific area just so you can get a job in the future. Like, don’t do an education degree because you think you’ll definitely get a job after uni. Don’t do that. I chose ag because 1) my parents wanted me to (so I was trapped in the fulfilling parents scenario), and 2) because everybody said that you will definitely get a job after graduating. My parents had also told their co-workers that I was doing ag, and they were quite pleased to hear because it’s a ‘useful’ degree. If you like agriculture and have a passion for it, then by all means do it! It’s one of the fastest growing areas in careers and will definitely be important for the future. I realised I would be quite miserable doing a degree I hated just so I can make my parents and society proud. You shouldn’t do something based on society’s opinion of it.

Despite it all, I don’t regret choosing ag to study. I got to at least learn about an area that I would never have learnt about at all, seeing that it’s affiliated in the science area. (I didn’t have to pay any of the subject fees since I withdrew before the census date). I felt guilty in a way, because I wanted to make my parents proud (specifically my dad), but they said that in the end, it’s me that’s doing this degree and not them. I also had made a few friends (well 2, but that’s something), and I was getting along with them quite well. I’m sure I’ll still be able to catch up with them in the future. I’m planning to re-enrol for mid- year entry, which starts around July (in Australia at least). I’m planning to do Bachelor of Arts, which I’m hoping I made the right choice. I do think I’ll enjoy arts more, but now I’m enjoying the ‘freedom’ of not doing work. I wonder if uni is the right decision for me.

Speaking of right decisions, if you don’t want to go to uni, don’t! I recommend doing a tafe/ college course in something that interests you. From there you can generally transfer to uni. And sometimes if you’re not sure, then just take a break and think about what you want to do. If you can, talk to your career’s counsellor for pathway options.

I hope this piece isn’t too tone-deaf. I’m aware that a lot of other people aren’t so fortunate to be in a position where their parents are okay with them dropping out, or where they can talk to someone about their life choices. No matter what position you’re in, TALK TO PEOPLE. It will help so much just to get another opinion on what to do. In the end, it all comes down to you what you will do next.

#life #opinion #real life #thoughts #feelings #university #college #lifechoices #daily life #do anything #pathway #journey #youcandoit #believeinyourself #you are you

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96thdayofrage · 3 years

Text

The clashes in Charlottesville catalyzed the American public’s reckoning with the budding white nationalist movement, which had accelerated after Donald Trump’s election. Afterward, the wave of public shaming of the violence in Charlottesville led at least one “Unite the Right” marcher to insist his participation in the rally was misinterpreted as racist. Others who attended quickly lost their jobs after online campaigns exposed them.

But the eventual identification of the man in the white tank top and red hat shook many: He was revealed to be a 33-year-old Puerto Rican resident of Georgia, originally from the Bronx. “I’m the only brown Klans member I ever met,” Alex Michael Ramos joked in a Facebook Live video before he turned himself into police Aug. 28. The Facebook post has since been taken down.

But Ramos wasn’t the only “Unite the Right” marcher with a Hispanic background.

Christopher Rey Monzon, a 22-year-old Cuban-American, is associated with the League of the South, which the Southern Poverty Law Center classifies as a neo-Confederate hate group. Monzon was arrested weeks after Charlottesville for charging at protesters in a separate Florida demonstration. And Nick Fuentes, a 19-year-old student who hosts an alt-right podcast called America First, said he had to leave Boston University in the aftermath of the Charlottesville protests after receiving death threats over his participation.

The presence of these Latino men at the largest white nationalist event in recent memory underscores the complicated racial position of Latinos in the United States. Latino white supremacy, it turns out, might not be a contradiction in terms.

Increasingly, Latinos are identifying racially as white. In fact, more than half did so in the 2010 U.S. Census. A March 2016 report from Pew Research Center found that 39% of Afro-Latinos also identified “as white alone or white in combination with another race.” With a current population of around 58 million, Latinos make up the second-largest ethnic group in the U.S., just behind whites.

Another Pew Research Center study from December found that 59% of U.S. adults with Latino heritage who identify as white believe others see them as white, too. Over time, the study found, descendants of Latino immigrants stop identifying with their countries of origin and consider themselves more and more American.

Fuentes — who says he’s about 25% Mexican — identifies as white, not Latino. In an interview with Mic, Fuentes also said he believes multiculturalism threatens white national identity. Monzon, meanwhile, has called for South Florida to secede from the U.S. His ties to the League of the South are generational, as his parents have also protested with the white supremacist fringe group, according to the SPLC. In a Facebook profile the SPLC has attributed to him, Monzon goes by “Ambrosio Gonzalez,” the name of a Cuban general who fought as a Confederate colonel in the Civil War.

Ramos, however, rejects any notion that he’s racist, insisting he went to Charlottesville in defense of free speech and as a show of force against left-wing groups like Black Lives Matter and Antifa.

During the nearly hourlong video Ramos posted to Facebook, he became agitated at users who challenged him for marching with the KKK and jumping a black man.

“Yeah, I stood side-by-side with racist people, but they weren’t racist to me,” Ramos said. “They did not call me a ‘spic,’ they did not call me a ‘fucking wetback,’ they didn’t say nothing as such. We stood for the same common goal.”

Alex Michael Ramos has been charged in connection with the beating of a black man during violent clashes in Charlottesville, Virginia, during the “Unite the Right” rally Aug. 12.

Uncredited/AP

Despite his stated goals, the brutal violence in the video from that day was enough for judges in Charlottesville to twice deny Ramos bond.

“The victim was defenseless,” Judge Richard Moore of the Charlottesville General District Court said at Ramos’ bail hearing in November. “Mr. Ramos rushes into something where people are pummeling Mr. Harris. He is an unreasonable risk to others.”

Ramos is facing a malicious wounding charge and could spend up to 20 years in prison if convicted, according to local station WVIR-TV. Through his attorney, Ramos declined to be interviewed.

Other alleged perpetrators include Daniel Patrick Borden of Ohio, who was identified online and arrested in connection to Harris’ attack. Like Ramos, he was also denied bond. Authorities arrested another suspect, Arkansas man Jacob Scott Goodwin, in October and extradited him to Charlottesville the following month.

Harris himself was later forced to turn himself in when Harold Ray Crews, an attorney and resident of Walkertown, North Carolina — and the state’s chairman for League of the South — claimed Harris injured him in the same scuffle. Though Harris’ felony charge for unlawful wounding was dropped in December, “there are still misdemeanor charges pending,” according to the Root.

Fuentes is, in many ways, representative of the ideas of the so-called alt-right, which the Anti-Defamation League defines as a “loose network of racists and anti-Semites.” His Twitter feed shows equal disdain for conservative commentator Ben Shapiro and the South Side of Chicago, which has seen a sharp increase in gang-related murders in recent years. Though he decried Heyer’s murder at the “Unite the Right” rally during his interview with Mic, he also equated it with antifa violence.

Fuentes did acknowledge there isn’t much reconciliation between his stance on multiculturalism — simply put, it’s bad and should be avoided — and his own cultural background: His Mexican ancestors immigrated to the U.S. at the turn of the 20th century. Intermarriage has created a “beige, rootless mass,” he said, and he rejects any notion that Latino immigrants can assimilate.

“I don’t buy the idea that if you come to a country and your kids learned the language, you’re from that country,” Fuentes said. “You have to understand that America is an exceptional nation; it’s the proposition nation. That’s why the identity question is so big here. America was obviously settled only very recently. If I moved to China and I filled out the paperwork, would that make me Chinese? Of course not. I would maybe be a part of the People’s Republic.”

“They demonize the ‘other,’ but the irony is that they were once the ‘other.’”

Fuentes’s own standard — that learning English and settling in the U.S. does not make you American — disenfranchises himself and his parents, a fact he acknowledged. From the perspective of someone who sees the U.S. as a foundationally European nation, as Fuentes does, being anything less than white is the same as being a nonentity.

“You rob children of something very fundamental when you take away a common and coherent identity,” he said. “I look at my Eastern European people from high school and they have their food and their special clothing from their home country. But when you have race mixing, you rob them. I do pause at that. This is not an experience I wish to replicate. I don’t know if I wish I could turn back the clock and change things, but ideally there wouldn’t be mixing.”

Joanna Mendelson, senior investigative researcher and director of special projects for the ADL, sees growing anti-immigrant views from the descendants of Latino immigrants as a unique conundrum.

“It’s this idea that, ‘we did it right, we did it legally,’” Mendelson said in an interview with Mic. “They’re not just addressing illegal immigration — which would be one thing — but they’re against refugees and Muslims and legal immigration. They demonize the ‘other,’ but the irony is that they were once the ‘other.’”

On Aug. 20, days after the Charlottesville protests, Juan Cadavid, a Colombian-born Californian who now goes by the name Johnny Benitez, led an “America First!” rally in Southern California he described as a vigil for victims of crimes committed by undocumented immigrants. Dozens of supporters were drowned out by nearly 2,500 counterprotesters, the Los Angeles Times reported.

In an interview with NPR in December, Benitez shared how he went from Occupy Wall Street protester and Bernie Sanders supporter to alt-right nationalist, claiming he was exiled from Occupy and called a bigot after he questioned the need for the group to support transgender people. He insisted he was not a white supremacist, but an advocate for what he called “white identity politics” — which includes embracing the 14 Words slogan used by white supremacists: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”

Benitez also told NPR he pushes for a United States that is “Italo-Spanish” white, to make room for the descendants of southern Europeans (which he considers himself to be). White nationalists such as Richard Spencer have said white Latinos could theoretically be part of a white ethno-nationalist state, but they still have mixed feelings about assimilation.

“In some instances you are rejected from the host culture, made to feel not American,” Benitez said of being an immigrant in the U.S. “And if I go back, I’m definitely not Colombian. You know, I didn’t live there, you can hear that I have an American accent, things like that, when I speak Spanish.”

Benitez’s girlfriend, Irma Hinojosa, cohosts The Right View, a YouTube talk show hosted with four other women who call themselves the “Deplorable Latinas.” The show features conservative Latinas commenting on the news from a point of view that conversation about Latinos and immigration focuses on the undocumented versus those who entered the country legally. Hinojosa also has her own YouTube channel where she livestreams protests and alt-right events. She was the only woman to speak at a June “Freedom of Speech” rally featuring Spencer and other alt-right figures.

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thebrewstorian · 4 years

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“Maybe you’ve heard of her husband? Finding Louisa Weinhard.” The Zoom 2020 PCB-AHA presentation.

Last week I was supposed to give a presentation for the Pacific Coast Branch of the American Historical Association conference. That didn't work out... For the COVID-19 reasons. But we did make it work a week later on Zoom and it was terrific!

My talk focused on Louisa Weinhard. Here’s what I said.

I started OHBA in 2013, the first of its kind in the country. 2013 is also when I met Peter Kopp [see photo above left bottom - Kopp is the author of Hoptopia: A World of Agriculture and Beer in Oregon's Willamette Valley] and we’re old hats at presenting together. Though usually we are in the same room. This talk, “Maybe you’ve heard of her husband? Finding Louisa Weinhard,” is based on an article for the Oregon Historical Quarterly I’m working on revisions for right now. I’m going to talk about women in brewing in Oregon, but first I want to talk about silence.

Archives and records repositories are filled with voices. We visit them to learn about our families, past actions of governments, and the activities of private organizations. But they are also spaces that reflect power and document the dominant narrative. Decisions are made by creators, by archivists, and by researchers about what to include and who to exclude – the result can be distortion, omission, and erasure. And so, for all the voices recorded in an archive, there are also many that have been silenced.

As anyone who has done historical research on women knows, their stories weren’t actually hidden, more often they were simply not recorded. The history of nineteenth century women’s work is often told through the story of husbands and sons. They were categorized as wives and mothers rather than business partners or owners. One issue I always cite when talking about researching women is the complications surrounding names: if their first name was recorded in newspapers (not just “Mrs.”), actually finding a maiden name to track genealogy often feels like luck.

Most (all) brewers in nineteenth century Oregon were men, but as I explored beer history more, I found the stories of early Oregon women and their work in brewing fascinating. In my research I found most women linked to breweries weren’t making beer, but I suspected they played an essential role in the businesses success (for example in running the household, child-minding, doing the books, participating in community events, etc.), and I knew that several ran the brewery for a time after their husband died.

I was preparing for an oral history in 2016 with Dana Garves, owner of BrewLab and former brewing chemist at Ninkasi, and I found a blog post she’d written called “Oregon’s First Women Brewers [1879-1908],” which included names and locations. I have since found photos of three of these women: Left to right is Fredericka Wetterer from Jacksonville, Mary Allen from Monument, and Marie Kienlen from southern Oregon. Garves also wrote about Theresa O’Brien from the north coast and Mary Mehl from the south coast. I added names of own, including Catherine Stahl and Frances Kastner from eastern Oregon; Margaret Beck from Capital Brewing in Salem, and Louisa Kiefer from Albany – she’s also Fredericka Wetterer’s sister.

But is there a way to determine the jobs they did or the role they played? I did a lot of online newspaper searching and onsite research in the places these women lived, and the short answer is no. Variables in terms of family structure, geographic location, brewery size, and available documentation make generalizations and specifics quite difficult.

But Henry Weinhard? His is a pretty familiar name and his business was extremely successful. And I was certain researching his wife would be a snap. An easy win and good practice for future work on the other women I’d identified.

I was wrong.

It turned out records for the Weinhards are scant, mostly limited to newspaper articles and ads, government records, lawsuits, and, for Henry, glowing biographies in “books about great men.”

And so I dug.

This is Louisa, who had that very famous husband. Although she was famous in her own right for generosity, as well as her involvement in local church and aid societies, her legacy is marked by both details and silences.

Not to jump to the end of the story first, but the fact that I have this picture is a true testament to my Googling superpowers. I scoured archival collections, newspapers, and books looking for a picture of her, only to fail. Finally, using a string of search terms I can’t remember, I found a 2015 reference to a portrait in an article about the Portland Community College remodel. Days before I finished the first draft of my article, I emailed their Community Relations manager and she sent me a picture of the portrait. It sat on my desk and I saved it on my phone to show people who I was writing about. We have signed the paperwork to have this transferred to the collections at OSU – I was due to pick it up the week everything closed…

Luise Wagenblast was born in Germany in 1832. She lost her mother when she was four, traveled to Missouri at fifteen, arrived in the Northwest at twenty-three, and married a man who would become famous when she was twenty-seven. By the time she died at aged eighty-five, she’d buried her husband and four of her five children.

Through online genealogy sites and local history sources, I pieced together details about Louisa’s family’s move from Waldrems, Germany, a small town about 300 miles southwest of Berlin, to Missouri to Oregon. Although she travelled to Oregon by ship, her brother Gottlieb journeyed with the 1855 wagon train led by Dr. Wilhelm Keil, founder of Christian communal settlements in Bethel (Missouri) and Aurora (Oregon) – thanks to Peter’s dad James for his work on utopian communities in Oregon because it helped me tease out whether they were part of the colony or not. They weren’t.

Through government records, I learned when she was married to Henry and when her children were born. Census records and newspapers documented the family’s moves back and forth across the Oregon / Washington border. Through the census, I also learned about her neighbors, the ages of her children, and if she had servants living in her home. While dates and names are recorded, what isn’t is the scope of her loss, which feels immense. Her son Christian Henry died in 1863 at two years old and daughter Emma Augusta in 1864 at 18 months. Her daughter Bertha Carolina (Bettie) died in 1882 of acute appendicitis at 13. Henry died in 1904 of kidney disease. Just over a year later, daughter Louise Wagner died of heart disease at thirty-two. Only daughter Anna Wessinger, who lived to 87, survived Louisa.

However, mentions in newspaper articles gave me a significant, and somewhat intimate, glimpse into her life through her community activities. She sent roses to the 1903 Portland Rose Society annual rose show and thirty pounds of sugar to support unemployed men at the Gipsy Smith Tabernacle. She donated $100 to a benefit fund to purchase artificial legs for Marjorie Mahr, an actress who lost both legs in a railway accident. When thirteen-year-old Ervilla Smith arrived at the Weinhard house in the middle of the night in 1905 after being assaulted near the Lewis & Clark Exposition fairgrounds and left on the street by a saloon; the family welcomed her, called the doctor and the police, while “Mrs. Weinhard got her something to eat and made her comfortable for the night.” She was a member of the Portland Women's Union and sent money to the Louise Home for Unmarried Mothers and Albertina Kerr Nursery Home. And during the last weeks of her life, she offered money to a woman whose husband was in prison in California so she could visit him.

I have lots of stories that could expand and fill the rest of my time: things I found out about Louisa’s siblings; brewery owners, saloon keepers, gambling, prostitution, and vice; women’s clubs in Portland; or family real estate acquisitions. But since it’s where I found the most detail, I’m going to tell you about how Louisa used that wealth and her position at the end of her life.

In the years following Henry and Louise’s deaths, it is difficult to determine how involved Louisa was in the brewery and family estate business, perhaps no more than in name as an executrix of the estate. What is clear is that she continued to support her German community. The most significant was her donation of a twenty-acre lot in Southeast Portland, worth $30,000, to build a retirement facility for elderly Germans to spend their final years “among their own people.” The Altenheim was to be the “most important of its kind in the U.S.” Newspapers reported that she wanted residents to take advantage of fresh air, good water, and rich soil; and because she valued work, also wanted “helpful occupations for charges” and imagined the home would be partially self-supporting through farming. On August 6, 1911, with 2,000 people present, the cornerstone was laid, which contained pictures of Henry and Louisa, as well as copies of Portland’s German and other daily newspapers. Louisa’s great-grandson talking later about a picture in the newspaper of Louisa at the May 1912 dedication, in an open carriage with the mayor of Portland, described her as looking like queen Victoria, “very short and very fat.” That’s the picture you see here – a find made possible by the University of Oregon’s Historic Oregon Newspapers site. I learned more about Louisa from the news coverage for the Altenheim than in most previous articles about Henry or the business. Beyond a tone-deaf comment about her appearance, I learned that she valued work, self-sufficiency, and cultural traditions, but also that she was part of a community that felt isolated from the rest of Portland. What we don’t hear are her words – in all the press coverage regarding the Altenheim there isn’t a single quote from Louisa.

The Altenheim was closed in 2003 and the building housed the German American Society offices until the property was sold to Portland Community College in 2010. And that’s where her portrait is waiting for me!

Louisa died in Portland on April 23, 1918 and was buried at the River View Cemetery. She was eighty-five years old, had been in America for seventy-one years and Portland for sixty-three. News of her death was carried in several papers.

W.G. Maclaren, General Superintendent Pacific Coast Rescue and Protective Society, wrote a letter to the editor that was an unfettered tribute to her good works and the hidden nature of her charity. He said that during the hard times of 1907, she bought $100 worth of tickets for the Portland Commons, and distributed them among “men who were out of work and in need of food and lodging.” He went on “She gave me orders that I was not to allow any unfortunate person to go away hungry and agreed to meet the expenses of feeding them.” He continued, “there never was a case of a mother or child in sickness or distress that Mrs. Weinhard knew of where she would not give assistance” and concluded she was a “good woman with one of the best hearts where human suffering was concerned that I have ever known. I believe that the people of Portland should know something of what she did during her long residence in this city for the benefit of Humanity.”

This last sentence feels like a final reminder that she gave freely to charitable causes and individual people, not for personal recognition (and maybe not for our historical record) but for the purpose of bettering others.

In researching Louisa, I found a handful of touchingly personal details that I couldn’t verify. The Weinhards supposedly had a house in Astoria and a farm of 620 acres in Yamhill County. An Oregonian article, written in 1954 when Louise Weinhard Wagner's home was being demolished, noted a 4-foot stained glass window with a woman sipping from a wine glass, said to have been installed by Louisa Weinhard as a gift with the house. The names Henry and Louise/a are handed down to subsequent generations in their family. And Louisa herself was immortalized in Brewery Block Two, a 242-unit high-rise residential building built on the location of the original Weinhard brewery in Portland.

But the last bit of sparkle to this story is a connection I made with one of her descendants on ancestry.com. I found Lizzie Hart, her great+ granddaughter, which had pictures of Louisa’s granddaughter and Lizzie’s grandmother. I wrote her and said “I’m an archivist. I have this picture of your relative and I’ve written this article about her, would you like either?” Fortunately, she wasn’t creeped out by this...

Instead, through our ongoing correspondence she has given me a more personal perspective on the Weinhard family and validated my work in this area. My research has added a dimension both the story of the women in her family and in her own personal understanding of how she fits into it. Her family story was the story of men.

I can’t end with a quote from Louisa, but I can end with one from Lizzie “What you are doing in your work -- the recovery of women's stories, painstaking as it may be to grapple in the dark room of the dominant narrative -- is such an important task to undertake on behalf of our futures.”

***

For more on archival silence, see

Carter, Rodney G.S. 2006. “Of Things Said and Unsaid: Power, Archival Silences, and Power in Silence”. Archivaria 61 (September), 215-33. https://archivaria.ca/index.php/archivaria/article/view/12541.

#louisa weinhard #prepinkboots #beer history #women in beer #Henry Weinhard #portland

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alecthemovieguy · 5 years

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Being Nicole

‘Supergirl’ star Nicole Maines’ passion for transgender rights makes her super in real life, too

Transgender activist and actor Nicole Maines knew she was a girl around the age of 3 or 4.

“My case is kind of unique because I have a twin brother (Jonas),” she told Ellen Degeneres during an appearance on “Ellen” in 2018. “So, growing up with him, he was identifying with all these male things and feeling very comfortable in his body, and I wasn’t.”

Maines, the subject of the Mount Washington Valley’s One Book One Valley community read “Becoming Nicole,” slowing began publicly transitioning in the first grade, and officially presented herself as female in the fifth grade, when she changed her name from Wyatt to Nicole.

Maines, who is turning 22 on Oct. 7, became the center of the precedent-setting Maine Supreme Judicial Court case Doe v. Regional School Unit 26 regarding gender identity and bathroom use in schools. Maines had been barred from using the female bathroom after a complaint, but the court ruled that denying a transgender student access to the bathroom consistent with their gender identity is unlawful.

In 2018, Maines debuted as Nia Nal/Dreamer, television’s first transgender superhero, on “Supergirl.” She is returning as a series regular for season five which premieres Sunday, Oct. 6, at 9 p.m. on The CW.

One Book One Valley has a series of events throughout October culminating in an evening with “Becoming Nicole” author Amy Ellis Nutt on Thursday, Oct. 24, at 7 p.m. at Loynd Auditorium at Kennett High School in North Conway, N.H. In addition to Nutt, the plan is to have the Maines family be part of the discussion through a Skype connection.

I recently talked with Maines about growing up transgender, activism, privilege and the upcoming season of “Supergirl.”

“Becoming Nicole” is beautifully written, but it is very journalistic and academic in its approach. Is there anything you would’ve done differently or included in telling that story?

I don’t know. I think, of course, Amy did a phenomenal job, and I am so happy with how the book came out because I think it really does have something for everyone, whether or not you’re just starting to learn about transitioning and you’re looking for something new. But there was so much that had to be cut out in the final editing process and, unfortunately, a lot of what did get cut out was original writing from Jonas’ perspective. I don’t know if it was something I would’ve done differently, I think it is more of a shame that it couldn’t make it into the final cut. It was just so long before it was cut. So, I do hope at some point people do get to see that because it is really, really beautiful.

In “Becoming Nicole,” a therapist told your parents that you weren’t transgender because you were peeing standing up. What are some other examples you’ve encountered of misinformation about what transgender is?

Where do I even begin? So many people think that it is one of those things that you can kind of slap a label on and say, “This is what this is,” and with something as expansive as gender it is really impossible to paint it as very black and white. So many people have tried to say “Oh, all trans people look like this. This is how you spot a trans person.” And that’s 1) offensive, and 2) not true or realistic.

I think a lot of that has to do with how historically we are represented in the media: men in dresses and this and that. It is so much more expansive than that. No one group of people looks a certain way, and it is dangerous to try to categorize people like that. So, I think besides the peeing standing up, which is ridiculous, what is equally ridiculous is the idea that some people think that they can spot a trans person, and that’s sort of the whole basis of their argument.

You know how sometimes you read certain blogs or you read certain Twitter accounts just to make yourself mad? I stumbled across one, it was a really popular TERF account — which stands for trans-exclusionary radical feminists, which is pretty much feminists who believe trans women aren’t women, and they use recycled rhetoric from the ’70s saying that trans women are just men trying to invade women’s spaces and stupid shit like that. It was this person going on and on about, like, “Oh, none of you pass. None of you look like women. Yada yada yada.” And I was like, 1) no room to talk because her haircut was atrocious, and 2) come say it to my face. It really made me mad. It is atrocious that people think they can spot something like that. It is ridiculous.

It is kind of like the back-handed compliment that I receive a lot, that is “Oh, you don’t look trans,” or “Oh, never really would’ve guessed.” A lot of the time, I try not to jump on people for that because I know it is coming from a place where they’re trying to give me a compliment, but what does trans look like? What did you think I was going to look like?

And, of course, everyone thinks that we are supposed to look like men in dresses, which — even if we did — is rude as hell to say something like that because, not only is that stupid, but it is also reinforcing negative beauty standards among women, not just trans women, but women. Because you hear about the bathroom bills and they are like, “Oh, we are going to enforce no trans people in bathrooms.” Well, how are you going to enforce that? And then you get cases of cis women getting kicked out of the bathrooms because they look more masculine than others. Even for cisgender women that is not a black and white line. People look different, and it is totally unfair and unreasonable to say just because someone has harder features than somebody else that this is what is going on in your pants. That feels like a wild, crazy assumption to me.

So, obviously your father always loved you, but he struggled with your identity. Was there a specific moment when you finally felt truly seen by him?

I know a lot of moments where he really started having light bulb moments. I think for me, one of the first moments where I felt like I started being seen was when I started wearing girl’s clothes to school. My transition started going there slowly, but between second and third grade I had gone from wearing longer hair to wearing girl’s clothes all the time. I don’t know if it was even just my father, but by everyone, but that is when I started feeling like I was being seen. Then in fifth grade was when I had fully transitioned. I was allowed to pierce my ears and I was allowed to wear skirts and dresses. That really felt like I am seen. And then, of course, when my father finally started fighting for me. Because I knew, at that point, he still didn’t fully understand, but when he started defending me and defending my transition and my using the girl’s bathroom, I felt like I had him on my side.

I love last season of “Supergirl.” One of my favorite moments was when Nia Nal/Dreamer publicly announced herself as both an alien and a transgender woman because it put a positive face on a group who were being demonized in the show. How important do you think it is to give a face to marginalized people?

It is incredibly important. The best way to fight against marginalization and the most effective way that we fight back against people who are trying to erase us is with visibility. When you have an administration who, for incidents in a crazy hypothetical, removed me from the 2020 census, then the best way to combat that is to be more visible than ever. By saying, OK, you’re trying to make people think that we are not valid, you’re trying to make people think we don’t exist and that we are not solid and valid in our identities and our existence. Well, then we are going to show you that we are. We are going to show you: no, you cannot ignore us because we are here and it doesn’t really matter what you believe. It doesn’t really matter if you say, “Well, I don’t really believe in transgender.” Well, it isn’t really something for you to believe in because whether you like it or not, we are here. We exist and that’s not a matter of opinion. You do not get to choose whether or not my identity is valid because I am not doing it for you and we are not going to let you erase that. So, I think visibility is the number one method of defense against erasure.

Based on the trailer, the new season of “Supergirl” partially deals with the betrayal and anger Lena Luthor feels toward Carol Danvers hiding her identity of Supergirl from her. This seems like an apt metaphor for the similar sense of betrayal, hurt and confusion some people feel when a loved one comes out as trans or gay. Do you think that is intentional?

I don’t know if it was intentional. I think because there are so many different layers with Carol and Lena’s relationship, and especially with the Kryptonian-Luthor relationship. I think it is hard to boil it down to just that, because I get why Lena is upset and I get why those feelings are floating around, but personally, I’m kind of like nobody owes any facet of their identity to anybody but themselves. If they did not feel that they wanted to share a part of their identity with you, you don’t get to be mad about that. That is something that belongs entirely to them and if they did not choose, for whatever reason to disclose that part of themselves, that’s not because you necessarily did anything wrong, that’s because they had a choice and that’s not necessarily on them either. But, like I said, it is different between being trans and being a superhero. It is hard because, at the same time, it is like, “Oh, you were treating me like Lex, and I’m not Lex. You can trust me.” So, there’s a whole bunch of other stuff floating around, but I don’t know if it was a 100 percent intentional, but there are definitely connections.

That’s the great thing about sci-fi is that it can always be used as a metaphor for exploring social issues.

Absolutely.

How will Nia Nal be challenged in the new season?

The theme of this season is communication, and so something Nia is struggling with the first chunk of the season is communicating with how she feels with Brainiac because they’ve been dating and they have been having communication issues. Neither of them are the best at relationships, and so this is kind of a new area for her and she’s trying to work out, “How do I express how I feel without hurting you?” And that’s something she struggles with a lot. It is being open and honest with how she’s feeling and trying not to bottle up what she is feeling for the sake of other people.

What I also really love about Nia Nal is when she puts herself out there — kind of going off the whole thing of passing — she does pass as both a human and a woman, and so she doesn’t need to put herself out there, but by doing so she empowers others. Do you also try to lead by example in your own life?

Absolutely, I recognize 100 percent as Nia and as Nicole that I have an insane amount of privilege. I’m white and, like you said, I pass and I’m on TV. And I mention that I am on TV because when we look at issues like HB2 and we look at bathroom bills and stuff like that, that is not necessarily going to affect me as someone who passes and as someone who is in Vancouver. I’m working in Vancouver, HB2 will not affect me. I am not there. But I recognize that there are issues that are affecting members of my community who don’t have the same significant platform that I do. And so it is my responsibility as a member of that community, as someone with that platform, to lift them up and to start to shine a light on issues that are affecting members of my community, even if I personally will not feel the impact of that harmful legislation.

It is important and that’s what we talk about in feminist circles. We are always talking about how can people with privilege use that privilege to lift others up, to better the situation of others who don’t have those some privileges. We ask that of men, we ask that of white people, we ask that of abled-body people, of trans women who pass. We ask that people use their privilege responsibly. And so that is what I try to do and I hope that I am succeeding. I just try to use my platform and use my voice to talk about issues that I feel matter.

Going back to “Becoming Nicole,” the book discusses “The Little Mermaid” as a metaphor for being transgender because Ariel doesn’t feel she belongs in the ocean and everyone tells her you have to be with your own people blah, blah, blah. Ariel was one of your favorite characters growing up, do you feel even at a young age you were drawn to this character because your struggle paralleled her struggle?

I guess subconsciously, yes, but on a surface level, I liked mermaids. I don’t know why I liked it so much and that’s why I say subconsciously I was drawn to it. I remember loving that more than anything else. I loved everything about her. I remember I was like, “That is what I want for myself.” I was like, “She is so beautiful, and she is so graceful,” which is not a trait that I’ve been able to replicate in my own life. I remember being so drawn to her, and I was like “Mom, Dad, that is what we are going for. That is the look.” Between her and, I’ve said it before, Storm from the X-Men. I remember watching “X-Men: The Animated Series” as as kid and she had that hair and the cape and was like “Oh, that’s drama. I love it.”

And now you have your own cape.

Well, metaphorically speaking. I don’t have a superhero cape. I feel a little cheated.

Well, maybe you can get one.

No, I have the best supersuit. It is shiny and holographic. It is awesome.

One part I really liked in “Becoming Nicole,” I think it was before you were going to enter fifth grade, you were asked what kind of story you’d tell and you said it would be this mystery/comedy/fantasy with a sassy character and a sidekick who was even sassier. If you were to write that story now what do you think it would look like?

Oh my God. Well, it would definitely have the sassy character and the sassier sidekick, because I remember growing up I was always the biggest fan of the sassy comic relief characters, which is why I tried to play that role in my own regular life, which took some getting used to. I remember in middle school people didn’t exactly get the whole me trying-to-be-funny and I think it just came across as annoying. If I was going to write that story now, I think it would absolutely be about murder that would be the mystery. The comedy that would manifest itself in probably macabre, offbeat humor about murder. And then the fantasy ... they are all vampires. I’m just describing “Bit.”

I haven’t been able to find anyway to watch “Bit” (which stars Maines as a transgender teen who falls in with four queer feminist vampires, who try to rid Los Angeles' streets of predatory men), but I am very interested in that film. What was it like making that?

It was so amazing and I hope you’ll be able to watch soon. Right now, it is making its festival rounds, and hoping someone will choose to distribute it, and we’re like, “Pay us, please!” It was so incredible. Everyone on set was amazing and our writer/director Brad Michael Elmore is the coolest dude on the planet. I was talking about using our privilege to tell stories that matter and to raise up minority voices, and that’s absolutely what he did in this situation. I know a lot of the festivals we have gone to have been feminist festivals and gay festivals, and we’ve had a significant amount of people kind of be like, “Oh, you were written by a straight cis white guy,” and we’re like,“Yeah, and he’s doing exactly what we want him to be doing, which is using his privilege to create this super awesome movie featuring queer and interracial talent, this intersectional group of feminists.” We had a female DP which how awesome is that? We had this super awesome kaleidoscope of different identities in this film and I feel like some folks are very quick to write it off because it was written by a straight cis white guy. 1) I don’t feel that is fair to Brad, and 2) I don’t think that is fair to the movie. The movie is so cool and the movie deals with such cool issues and it approaches them all in such a fucking awesome way. To write it off because of who our director is feels very shortsighted.

And obviously you wouldn’t say or do anything that felt disingenuous to your own experience.

Yes, absolutely. I was like, “Ye of little faith.”

When you were 13 years old you went to the Maine statehouse and spoke to dozens of representatives to convince them to vote against a bill that would make it legal to discriminate against trans people. Do you have any interest in getting into politics either working for a campaign or as a candidate yourself?

I think I would be willing to support someone else’s campaign. Politics are not for me. I do not have the stomach for that. I do not have the patience for that. I know where my lane is and it is absolutely not going for an elected position. I am more the person who shows up when the politicians are not doing what they are supposed to be doing. That’s when I get involved.

The big thing I took away from “Becoming Nicole” was that prejudice and hate is something that is taught, because the boy who started harassing you the most was told by his grandfather that you were wrong and that he should go after you. And so I guess the question is, what do you do to undo these wrongheaded lessons that are passed down by parents or grandparents?

I think the first step comes from within. You cannot make anybody do anything. You cannot make somebody unlearn hate and prejudice. That journey has to start with themselves. With my father — and, of course, he was never outwardly hateful or anything, I always knew he loved me — but his journey to acceptance started with him deciding to pick up Jennifer Finney Boylan’s book (about being a transgender woman) and read it. He had to ask himself what he was so afraid of if his son was his daughter. He had to ask himself what about that terrified him so much. And that’s what every person has to do.

Every person has to be aware of their own prejudices and their own biases. We all have them. We have to be aware of them. We have to actively work to undo them because it is something we are taught, not even just by our parents or caretakers, but through television and society. We are pumped full of biases and prejudices that we are not even aware of, and so we have to pay extra care and extra caution to do undo those. And when we catch ourselves, we have to recognize, “No, that’s not right” and go from there.

It has to be a conscious choice, and so that is hard. It is a hard thing to do. It is a really gross feeling to try to unlearn stuff like that, and so a lot of people won’t do that because a lot of people are more comfortable being like, “No, I don’t get it, that’s gross, I don’t like it and I’m going to hate it.” That is much easier and much more comfortable then asking yourself what you are afraid of. As socially responsible participants in the community, we have a responsibility to ask that question anyway. All of us have to ask that question and not just about trans issues, because if we don’t do that, if we are looking for what is easy and what is comfortable at the expense of other people, then stay inside.

And I feel like the biggest thing is if you’re afraid of a gay person or trans person or black, Hispanic, whatever social issue, if you actually talk to these people that you are afraid of, that you’d see that they are just human beings.

That is the number one thing. It is so much easier to marginalize a group of people when you are not putting names to faces, when we are not putting faces to groups, when you are dehumanizing them. It is so much easier to sweep their plights under the rug and be like, “Oh, they don’t matter,” because you are not talking to them, you’re not seeing them as people. That’s why I always say, “Come say it to my face.” It is so much harder to be an asshole to someone’s face because you have to look them in the eye and tell them their rights don’t matter.

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theliberaltony · 4 years

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via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

The first time Bob Duffy entered the world of epidemiology, he was an amateur scientist. It was 2003. He had retired from the New York City Fire Department and taken a sabbatical from his normal life in suburban Long Island to help his daughter Meghan earn her Ph.D. in Michigan. She was studying the ecology and evolution of infectious diseases, using tiny lake crustaceans as a model organism.

Together, Meghan and Bob would go out in a truck, towing a little, flat-bottomed rowboat. They were studying how epidemics begin and spread under a variety of conditions. They’d unhitch at one lake, and then another, working their way across the countryside as they collected and counted diseased crustaceans and the fish that preyed on them. “Over the course of a few months, you can go through a whole epidemic,” Meghan Duffy told me. Her father was her paid research assistant, and one of his jobs was to catch the fish. After 30 years of running into burning buildings, he couldn’t believe his luck, she said.

The last time Bob Duffy entered the world of epidemiology, he was a statistic.

Bob Duffy was a father, grandfather, retired firefighter, and longtime volunteer in his Long Island community. He died on March 29.

COURTESY OF MEGHAN DUFFY

He died, at home, on March 29, 2020. Officially, the cause of death was chronic lung disease. But there was more going on than just that. A sudden illness had left him too fatigued to leave the house, and he had had contact with multiple people who later tested positive for COVID-19. Yet Bob’s death certificate doesn’t list that disease as a cause or even a probable cause of his death. He never got tested — he didn’t want to enter a hospital and be separated from Fran, his wife of 48 years.

Instead, because he didn’t die at a hospital and because this was at the beginning of the pandemic, when guidelines were rapidly changing and testing was hard to come by, Bob Duffy became one of the people who fell through the statistical cracks. As of this writing,1 22,843 New Yorkers have officially died from COVID-19. Bob Duffy is not counted among them.

More than a month later, the question of who counts as a COVID-19 fatality has become political. In Florida, the Medical Examiners Commission accused state officials of suppressing their state death count. Pennsylvania’s death tally bounced up and down, enough to prompt the state senate to discuss giving coroners a bigger role in investigating COVID-19 deaths. And President Trump has questioned the official national death count of 90,340 as of May 19,2 reportedly wondering whether it was exaggerated.

The experts who are involved in counting novel coronavirus deaths at all levels — from local hospitals to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention — disagree with the president. If anything, they say, these deaths are undercounted. And with a death like Bob Duffy’s, you can begin to see why.

Bob was a person, beloved by his family and his community. Ever since he died, Bob has also become a number — data entered into a spreadsheet, just like the tiny shellfish he and his daughter once pulled from cold Michigan lakes. His death might never end up being attributed to SARS-CoV-2, but his death matters to the way we understand it.

There was never a cough. Instead, the first sign of illness Fran Duffy remembers was when she and Bob tried to go for a walk and he couldn’t make it to the end of the block. “We got three houses down, and he said, ‘I can’t walk today. I’m too tired.’ I thought maybe he’s getting a bug. Maybe he’s just tired. So we came back. That was Wednesday,” she said.

He died four days later.

It was a very fast decline. But in other ways, Bob’s final illness was just part of a long string of sicknesses. Over the two decades since his retirement, he had had a stroke. He also had had cancer in his mouth, colon and liver. There was scarring — fibrosis — that had damaged his lungs and forced him onto supplemental oxygen. The radiation treatments that had cured his cancers years ago had also left him with nerve damage in his legs and a slowly eroding jawbone. Bob was not the picture of health. We are, after all, talking about a guy who worked for the NYFD during a time when firefighters did not routinely wear the ventilators and masks they had been issued. It was a macho thing, Fran said. You couldn’t be the one guy who put on the mask if nobody else did.

So when Bob got sick in late March this year, whatever it was was not the only thing he was sick with. He was also so sick of being sick that he wasn’t interested in going to the hospital. Even as his temperature soared to 103 degrees, Bob chose to do a video chat with his family doctor, Ihor Magun, rather than leave the house. Fran remembers the doctor suggesting they treat Bob as if he was positive for COVID-19, in terms of isolation from friends and family. He could have gotten a test — but the nearest testing center at Jones Beach was 30 minutes away, and then there were the long lines besides. Fran thought about driving him out there, but he was already sick enough that that option seemed worse for him than not knowing what it was that he had contracted.

All those small decisions, made in the moment because of what was best for Bob, ended up determining how his death was recorded.

The way deaths are counted, like so much else in the U.S., differs among (and even within) states. There’s a lot of variation in this process, even on a good day — a fact that stretches all the way back to the beginning of mortality records in this country. While the census began counting living people nationwide in 1790, recording deaths was left up to state and local governments. The first state to fully document its deaths was Massachusetts, in 1842. It wasn’t until 1933 that all states were turning in death counts to federal authorities.

Even today, now that the death certificate itself is fairly standardized, who first records your death and decides what you died of varies by where you live and where you die. And that variation is only likely to increase when people begin dying of a new disease that we still don’t understand. In Milwaukee County, Wisconsin, for example, medical examiners — medical doctors who investigate deaths and perform autopsies — must provide official certification for every COVID-19 or COVID-19-related death in the county, said Dr. Sally Aiken, president of the National Association of Medical Examiners. But that’s not true everywhere. In New York State, medical examiners get involved only in cases that seem strange or suspicious, like when an otherwise healthy young person dies with no prior warning, said Richard Sullivan, president of the New York State Funeral Directors Association. Otherwise, the decision is left up to health care workers.

Bob’s death certificate was filled out by his family doctor and did not mention COVID-19. The county medical examiner called Fran but asked only about Bob’s preexisting conditions. He had had enough of them that there was no reason to suspect foul play, and that was all the medical examiner needed to know.

If Bob had died in a nearby hospital, such as one of the ones in Nassau County owned by Northwell Health, he would have been tested for COVID-19, either before or after his death. Whether he’d been there for five minutes or a month, hospital staff would have been in charge of filling out the part of his electronic death record that pertains to cause of death, a representative from Northwell told me. This process can look deceptively simple — just write a cause of death on the line — but there’s more to it than you’d think.

A standard certificate of death provided by the National Center for Health Statistics leaves room for the chain of events that led to someone’s death.

The New York electronic death records form provides three lines for cause of death, which are supposed to be filled out in a way that tells a story. The idea is that nobody ever really dies of just one thing, Aiken told me. Even if you die in a traffic accident, the death record might read something like “Blunt force trauma … as a consequence of a car crash.” This is the information that helps people further up the data chain classify a death accurately. Leaving any part of the story out means a gap in the data later.

Not everyone fills out these records completely, though. And early on during the COVID-19 pandemic, there was a lot of confusion happening, said Shawna Webster, executive director of the National Association for Public Health Statistics and Information Systems, which represents vital registrars nationwide. “It might just say ‘coronavirus,’ which I’m sure you know is not as descriptive as it needs to be,” she said. There are, after all, multiple ways COVID-19 might kill a person. On the other end of the spectrum are people who fill out the forms completely wrong. “Please do not put ‘COVID-19 test negative,'” Webster said. “Do not do that. There were several.”

In the days after his first symptoms, Bob’s condition worsened. He’d become so tired he couldn’t leave the house — then so tired that walking anywhere by himself was impossible. He had a massively high fever. But even Saturday, the night before he died, he was still talking, Fran said, and so she asked him what he wanted for dinner. She expected something light. Bob said, “Corned beef hash.”

“I said, ‘Bob, corned beef hash?'” But he was sure. So Fran put it together for him, the man she loved. She had to move him to a wheelchair and bring him to the kitchen to eat. He could no longer walk without falling. “I bring him to the kitchen and I’m just turning to the sink to wash my hands and I hear plop,” she said. He had fallen asleep at the table. “His head went right down in the plate. And I just said, ‘Bob. What about the corned beef hash!’ So it just … he thought about it and he wanted it, but he just couldn’t get it, you know?”

Doctors say this kind of oxygen depletion and exhaustion — coupled with an ability to still communicate — is a common feature of COVID-19. Even after he collapsed at the table, Bob was lucid enough to talk to the priest who gave him his last rites later that night. He died the next day.

Over the next few weeks, it would become clear that Bob had been in contact with a number of potential sources of COVID-19 — or maybe he’d been a source that passed it to them. It’s impossible to know. His son-in-law was later diagnosed with the disease, and his wife — one of Bob’s three daughters — tested positive for COVID-19 antibodies. One day Fran would open the newspaper to find that the woman who had cut her and Bob’s hair for three decades — and who had come to their house just before Bob got sick — had died of COVID-19.

But Bob’s death certificate makes no mention of the novel coronavirus. Bob’s doctor did not return requests for an interview, so we don’t know why he made the choices he did when completing the certificate. But Bob’s immediate cause of death is listed as “cardiopulmonary arrest” — his heart stopped — as a consequence of “chronic obstructive lung disease,” as a consequence of “fibrosis.”

Bob is a prime example of why doctors and other experts think that COVID-19 deaths are probably being undercounted — not overcounted, as some COVID-19 skeptics have alleged. In fact, if Bob had died today, there’s a decent chance that he’d have been labeled a “probable” COVID death, based on current CDC guidelines, which, among other things, advise doctors to include “probable COVID-19” on death certificates when a patient has had symptoms of the disease and been in contact with people who tested positive. Originally, only people who themselves had tested positive for the virus were being counted. Like Bob, a lot of people were probably left out. But even as the guidelines were revised and the national death count — which includes probable as well as confirmed cases — shot upward, experts said that undercounting was still more likely than overcounting.

COVID-19’s death toll has been so overwhelming that officials have had to resort to makeshift morgues in trailers.

TAYFUN COSKUN / ANADOLU AGENCY VIA GETTY IMAGES

Some of this reasoning is based on logic. We know that we had a widespread shortage of tests when people were already dying of COVID-19, so it makes sense that these two problems would overlap at times.

Other reasoning is based on data. In a lot of states the number of pneumonia deaths in March was higher than what you’d expect for that time of year, or for the level of influenza active during that time — an important detail, given that pneumonia can often be a complication of that disease as well. These increases were particularly noticeable in New Jersey, Georgia, Illinois, Washington and New York, according to research led by Dan Weinberger, a professor of epidemiology at Yale School of Medicine. But pneumonia isn’t the only way COVID-19 kills. All deaths in the state of New York went up in March, and these excess deaths — deaths above the usual rate for that place and time of year — outstrip diagnosed COVID-19 cases statewide by nearly three times. Data collected by The New York Times suggests that the high number of “excess” deaths in New York continued through April.

Yet another reason why experts say we’re not overcounting COVID-19 deaths is that we’re now counting them in much the same way as we have always counted deaths from infectious disease. The methodology is longstanding and is used for all sorts of diseases — and there’s never been cause to think that the methodology made us overcount the deaths from those other diseases.

In the bureaucracy of death everything happens fast, fast, fast, and then, after a while, things just grind on.

If you look at the CDC’s annual report of flu deaths, for example, you’ll see that it’s “estimated,” modeled on official flu deaths reported, deaths from flu-like causes reported, and what we know about flu epidemiology. The calculation is done this way precisely because public health officials know that a straight count of formally diagnosed flu deaths would be an undercount of actual flu deaths.

While flu tests aren’t in short supply and essentially anyone who wants to be tested for the flu can be, not everyone who catches it gets tested. Plenty of people get sick with the flu and never go to a doctor, said Alberto Marino, a research officer at the London School of Economics who has studied disease case and death counts for both LSE and the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development. If they die — especially if they are also old or have some underlying condition — the role the flu played in their deaths can easily go unnoticed and unrecorded. We don’t record “probable” flu deaths (again, the tests aren’t rationed), but we do record deaths due to “flu-like illnesses” — and plenty of people who die from the flu don’t have that listed as the cause on their death certificates.

Likewise, when a doctor lists COVID-19 as a condition that led to someone’s death — even if it was just the last in a series of illnesses — they’re not doing anything different from what’s been done with the flu for years, Aiken told me.

Basically, if you think COVID-19 deaths are being inflated, then you shouldn’t trust annual flu death counts, either. Or a whole host of other death counts. The only reason to really think that COVID-19 death counts are less trustworthy at this point is that the flu is politically neutral while the new coronavirus is not.

If there’s any major difference between the way we count flu deaths and the way we count COVID-19 deaths, it’s that nobody is trying to publish flu deaths daily, in real time. And that’s where death counting for COVID-19 gets complicated.

When Bob Duffy died, his community responded immediately. Fran found her mailbox filled with cards; flowers and baked goods piled up on the porch. At one point, there were so many tulips, hydrangeas and pansies that the Amazon delivery guy started to make comments, so Fran decided to plant the flowers around the yard. “There’s not one card that doesn’t have a separate letter in it,” she said. And many were from people she didn’t even know.

Besides being a firefighter and Ph.D. assistant, Bob spent many years working with the local Catholic parish’s social ministry. Essentially, he was a volunteer social worker. He made sure people who were hungry found meals. He helped strangers pay their utility bills, and he coordinated a Long Island-wide food bank. “Most people volunteer one day a week. Bob officially volunteered five days a week,” Fran told me. “He ended up with the keys to the parish. He was up there seven days a week, and he couldn’t be stopped.”

So when he did stop, people cared. And they cared for his widow.

Bob Duffy’s family will never know for sure whether he died of COVID-19.

COURTESY OF MEGHAN DUFFY

Death happens suddenly, abruptly. At first, family, friends and, sometimes, if we’re lucky, strangers burst into action like Roman candles, sending out showers of casseroles and condolences like sparks. For a short period of time, there is a lot to do, decisions to be made, love to be accepted. But then there is quiet. And then there is the rest of your life. The absence that death leaves behind lasts far longer than the initial flurry of condolences.

The bureaucracy of death has a similar dynamic — first, everything happens fast, fast, fast, and then, after a while, things just grind on.

In New York, in the heady first day or two after a person dies, the doctor or hospital enters the cause of death on an electronic death record, the funeral home fills out demographic data on the same form, and the state registrar of vital statistics logs the data. But from there things slow down considerably.

Usually, that’s fine — death statistics aren’t so volatile that we need them to be updated as quickly as, say, election returns or live sports scores. But the pandemic has changed our relationship with these stats. Now they’re how we know whether we’re stopping the spread of COVID-19, and just how big that spread is. The problem is that the system isn’t designed to do that work.

Normally, if a death is uncomplicated and requires no investigation or autopsy or debate, death records are transferred to the National Center for Health Statistics, an arm of the CDC that organizes and analyzes the data of life and death in this country. It’s here that a death is categorized and tabulated. And this process is happening now, with COVID-19 deaths as well.

It takes time to investigate some of the deaths and get them to NCHS — the frequency of investigations varies widely, but state-level emergency operations teams work with medical personnel and state epidemiology surveillance to review COVID-19 deaths and possible COVID-19 deaths, Webster said. So the records can be in the state databases for a while before they’re solid enough that they go to NCHS. Then, someone at the NCHS is reading each of these death records to make sure that, say, a car crash victim who happened to have a COVID-19 diagnosis is logged in a database differently from a COVID-19-positive patient who died on a ventilator. The result of all this is that, even though public counts include confirmed COVID-19 deaths and probable ones, the deaths aren’t just being recorded willy-nilly. And it will be possible, in the future, to go back and look at the records and see which cases were confirmed by testing and which weren’t.

But these are slow stats. And they’re slowed down even further by the confusion caused by a novel virus pandemic. Currently, the count of COVID-19 deaths produced this way is at least two weeks behind, said Robert Anderson, chief of the mortality statistics branch of the NCHS. The counts in some states, including New York, might be lagging even more. This system is the gold standard, Webster said, but it’s designed to produce accurate statistics — not monitor a pandemic in real time.

Death is hard — hard to count, hard to experience.

And so the CDC also has fast stats on COVID-19 deaths. Besides going to the NCHS, the data from the New York State vital records office is also gathered directly from that agency’s database and into one maintained by USAFacts, a nonpartisan nonprofit organization charged with collecting daily death reports from the state and county registrars that first record them. The CDC’s COVID Data Tracker comes directly from the USAFacts count.

That means there are two distinct death counts being published by the CDC — one slow, one fast. (That’s in addition to counts being kept by Johns Hopkins University, The New York Times, and other entities.) As of May 19, the CDC’s slow count was 67,008, and its fast count was 90,340. You’ll find both counts in various sections of the CDC’s website, and when you look at those pages, it’s not always clear what these separate counts do and don’t represent. It’s easy to get confused and assume that the death count you’ve just seen in the newspaper has suddenly been cut in half. On May 2, conservative firebrand Dinesh D’Souza falsely claimed exactly that, linking his followers to the CDC’s slow count.

The smaller, slow count is more accurate, but it doesn’t reflect how many people have died as of today. It’s weeks behind. The fast count does a better job of portraying the real-time situation, but the exact number will shift as state and local counts fluctuate. Some of that change is due to confusion between state and local entities. New York City, for example, has its own vital records office — almost as though it’s an independent state — and the fast-count numbers it produces for itself don’t usually match the fast-count numbers produced for it by the State of New York, said Tanveer Ali, a data visualization analyst for USAFacts.

And while Bob Duffy will not be counted in either the slow or the fast counts happening now, he will likely end up included in the data — if only by algorithmic proxy. Eventually, experts said, the CDC will come back and do an estimated burden of death counts for COVID-19, just as it does for the flu every year.

All of this is why we won’t know the exact number of people who died of COVID-19 for years, Aiken said. Again, that’s nothing new. Final estimates for the number of people who died in the 2009 H1N1 pandemic weren’t published until 2011. Getting the slow count right, sorting through differences between disparate and nonstandardized state reporting systems, correcting errors and categorizing probable cases, finding ways to understand how many Bob Duffys we’re missing — it all takes time. This is, experts emphasized again and again, something nobody has ever done before. But the precedent that does exist suggests we shouldn’t expect to get a “right” answer soon. “If you look at opioid mortality, they’re two and a half years behind on compiling that,” Aiken said.

Death is hard — hard to count, hard to experience. The personal and the statistical both reside in a space where the question of “what happened” can be answered as an absolute — as certain as we can ever be about a thing — while simultaneously remaining painfully inexact and mysterious.

We will almost certainly never know exactly how many Americans died of COVID-19. But any count we get by leaving out deaths probably related to the virus — and, ultimately, leaving out Bob and a lot of people like him — will be less accurate than a count that includes them.

“We like to have answers. We like to have a yes, a no, a definite answer,” Fran said. Bob had been dead for about a month when Fran spoke to me from her kitchen. Just that day, someone she didn’t know had sympathetically left a loaf of banana bread in her mailbox. He was still so close. He was so far away. “But we certainly don’t always get what we like,” she said. “That’s really the truth, you know?”

Additional reporting by Kaleigh Rogers.

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Maggie Koerth

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writersrealmbts · 5 years

Text

Protect Them-Hybrid AU: Part 9

Description: Safe with Me Sequel! You work two days a week teaching kids the joys of learning and reading, your favorites being the triplets. When the triplet’s adopted older brother is the one that starts picking them up, you’re not sure what life just handed you but you’re pretty sure it’s just another little slice of heaven. Hoseok x Reader.

Warnings: I don’t even know, if you do, let me know and I’ll change the warnings.

Posted: 02/24/2019

Tags: Hybrid!au, hybrid!Hoseok, Safe With Me Sequel

Angst with fluffs: 2,496 words

A/N: Happy Part Nine! I’m weak and I’m posting early because I got responses to the quick census. I think you’ll be happy with the next part, which I will likely post on Wednesday!

“It’s likely you had a complex-partial seizure,” The doctor said, smiling kindly. “I’ve looked at your file, and it’s possible given the damage caused to your brain in the accident. Your doctor even listed it here as something he was concerned about as a side effect. You’re lucky, you could have had a grand mal seizure. You’re normally on these medications, since the accident anyway?” He set a list in front of you. You read over it and nodded. A seizure. Of course. It made sense now. You had trained to help kids who had seizures as part of your first aid certification and now that the doctor said it all of the symptoms made sense. “This one is to suppress nerve pain, and is also used for people with epilepsy. It’s likely taking this prevented you from showing symptoms earlier. Or that you had similar seizures before and were unaware that they occurred. I’ve sent down these prescriptions for you, given the circumstances you’re in, and you should be able to pick them up on your way out at the pharmacy on the first floor.” “But she’s okay?” Hoseok asked. “I’d have to run more tests, but considering the seizure lasted under five minutes, I think she’s fine. We’ll get her back on her medication and hopefully that keeps them from happening again.” “Thank you,” You murmured. You were exhausted. “No problem. Get your prescriptions, get home, get some rest. Both of you. Kids, would you like stickers?” All three perked up, tails wagging excitedly, thanking him when they got their stickers. It was dark out when you pulled up to the summer house. Thankfully, your seizure had ended in the store, and you had insisted on checking out before going to the walk-in clinic (the closest thing the town had to a hospital). Hoseok had stopped and gotten pizzas for dinner because there was no way either of you were cooking. You had to direct Hoseok where to find the key in the treehouse from the ground, guessing more than anything, but he eventually found it and you all entered the house you used to come to every summer. It was nicer than you remembered, and looked like the interior had been remodeled in the past few years. “It’s nice,” Hoseok said, looking around. “Alright, first things first, get the kiddos set with some dinner. Y/n, you sit and eat too. I can handle bringing things in and making beds if you get them into pajamas.” “Deal.” You helped him put slices of pizza on plates for the kids and yourself, then sat with them at the table in the breakfast nook to eat while they ate. Minsu and Kaemon picked the pepperoni off, and Kae gave his to his brother. Nari ate like normal. Then after Minsu finished his piece of pizza, he ate the pepperoni. You got them into their pajamas with very little fuss, and managed to take a shower and change into your own pajamas, only needing Hoseok’s help to get the brace back on (while he ranted about how you could have hurt yourself). He then insisted on blow-drying your hair, at least partially. You then helped him tuck the kids in. They had all fallen asleep with Minsu in the end, an hour earlier than their actual bedtime. Then Hoseok carried you into one of the other bedrooms and tucked you in, seeing that your medicine was kicking in. But you would swear that you felt him kiss your forehead before he left. The first day at the summer house the kids were blissfully unaware of the trouble surrounding their trip to this magical place. They loved that they could play in the shallow waters, and Minsu had caught about five frogs by now, and all three of them adored the treehouse. Three days in the summer house had passed with relatively little to worry you or cause problems. Except Hoseok, but he was an eternal problem that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to fix. He seemed hyper aware of you now, checking on you periodically, making sure you were okay, but even when you were perfectly fine and it showed—as you played with the kids happily—he seemed to have this look in his eyes that haunted you late at night. It was the fourth day at the summer house that you walked down to the corner market and got a paper, seeing the headlines. The lady who owned the market sent her twelve-year-old daughter to get Hoseok for you. “What happened? Did you have a seizure?” He asked the moment he entered the store, the truck parked outside the doors. You handed him the paper, a lump in your throat. “It’s over.” He frowned and read over the paper, confused about why you would be so upset, until he finished reading the title of the article. He inhaled sharply. “Your sister.” “Guess she really did change,” You choked out. He hugged you close, tight. “She was protecting you. She died to protect you.” “We should get back. The kids.” “Yeah,” He agreed simply, picking you up and carrying you to the car while you protested weakly. “Don’t deprive me of one of my few pleasures in life.” You snorted, but didn’t argue any further. You didn’t know how you felt, other than conflicted. On one hand, you could literally only count the nice things she’d done for you on that one hand. On the other, she was your sister. Your family. You powered your phone on, and texted Emma the address. An hour later, the triplets were screeching with joy, throwing themselves into their parents arms and being adoringly smothered by said parents. Four hours later and all of you were back at Emma and Jin’s, the kids running to Jimin, Jungkook, and three hybrid men you didn’t know, one of which had a very young toddler in his arms. Hoseok stuck beside you the whole time. It was in the evening that you and Emma were talking, Hoseok gone from your side. “She was working for the organization that was against us, the one that broke that vile thing out of jail. But she leaked all the information that they needed to take everyone down. She’s a hero. But that doesn’t mean that what she did to you in the past can be forgotten,” Emma said thoughtfully. “Some scars run deep.” You sighed shakily. “She was finally reaching out, honestly and good-naturedly. And now I won’t ever be able to find out if she really wanted to be in my life again. I won’t be able to replace the litany of terrible memories that she’s left in my mind with good ones. I think that’s honestly more upsetting to me. She finally changed, we might have finally had the chance to be and act like siblings and now the chance is gone. And for me, it seems like everyday I lose just a little bit more. I don’t know if I can take it.” “Oh, honey,” She sighed and held you a little tighter. “It’s going to be okay.” “It’s not,” You whispered, closing your eyes as the tears filled them. “What else is bugging you, hon? Hmm? Because I don’t think this is about your sister.” So you told her, everything from being afraid of living alone now that you apparently had seizures (even with the medicine), to how you felt like your heart had been ground into dust over Hoseok. How his smile made you feel like life was worth living, but knowing that he would never in his right mind give it to you made you feel like you were dying. You told her about your worry over finding a new job, a place to live, everything. All while crying your eyes out. She didn’t say much, small comforting things, mostly just letting you get it all out now that you were safe. She waited until your sobs were hiccups, and your tears had slowed. You were sort of limp in her arms, finding comfort in her. “You should talk to Hobi about it,” She finally said, gently brushing your hair from your face. “I know it’s scary, and I know it feels like too big of a risk right now, but if you don’t, you’re going to really hurt yourself in the long run. You can wait until you’ve recovered, but I think the sooner you do it the better it will be.” You nodded, then cracked a smile as she directed your hand to where one of her twins was kicking a tiny bit. “How are you doing?” “Well, normally twins come early, so I’m sort of worried, but the doctors were constantly checking on me at the sanctuary. If I don’t go into labor within the week, they’re going to do a c-section. I don’t think it’ll come to that though.” You sat up, smiling at her. “Why’s that? Did you have spicy food or something?” “Mmm, I could really go for some curry now…” She murmured, then shook her head. “No, but I should probably get Jin in a while and head to the hospital.” You looked at her. “You’re way too calm for someone who basically just said they’re in labor.” “I was in the hospital for two days with the triplets before they were born. You learn how long you can wait. Besides, they’re all cuddled up with Jin in this big pile of blankets and pillows and it’s adorable. Then Jungkook and Jimin joined them and it was even more adorable, so of course Hoseok joined them as well. Lots of good memories, and plenty of pictures.” She showed you one that she had taken. You grinned. She smiled at it as well, sighing. “Jungkook seemed so little when he first came, and grew so fast.” “The man that did those things to Hoseok…” “Tried to break into the Sanctuary. Thought he was there.” “And?” She shifted. “Jin put two bullets in his chest, and the police put a third in his head.” Her voice was surprisingly cold. “Good,” You said. She nodded slowly. “The files your sister released showed that Hobi was the first to survive him. Yoongi would have been killed too if he hadn’t been so strong. I’m not saying killing him was right, but I couldn’t sleep knowing he was out there somewhere. Hurting someone. Even if he had lived, he would have received the death penalty. He just got it a little sooner than he expected.” “Eomma?” Hoseok poked his head into the room, then froze, looking between you and Emma. You could see how he wanted to rush over and find out what was wrong, itching to try and comfort you because he couldn’t help it. He instinctively needed to protect you, that’s what he said. “Hey, Hobi. You okay?” She asked, her voice softer. He nodded tersely. “Everything okay here?” “Yeah, we’re just having some girl-talk. Can you go wake Jin, Hobi? Tell him we need to head to the hospital?” “Why?!” His tail fluffed out, eyes wide. She laughed softly. “Had to have these babies sometime, Hobi.” His shoulders relaxed dramatically. “Oh, right. Got it. I’ll go wake him up.” He handed you the box of tissues, then left. She lightly rubbed your back. “You okay?” “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You just focus on your babies,” You told her, leaning on her shoulder. “You try to relax. Don’t worry so much about you and Hobi. Everything will work out for the best.” You nodded, watching somewhat helplessly as she stood up and headed toward the hallway, slipping on her flats and her coat serenely as she waited for her husband. Jin came quickly with a bag, dressed again, and he kissed her. “You ready, baby?” “Yeah, honey. I’m ready. Hobi…” “I’m in charge, I know the drill. I’ll bring the kids in when you call.” He kissed her cheek, nuzzling it lightly. “Love you, Eomma.” “Love you too.” She looked over at you and smiled reassuringly. “Make sure she gets to bed at a decent time, yeah?” “I will.” He smiled at you. His hair was a bit messy from his nap and you just wanted to run your hands through it. Your heart ached as you watched how lovingly Jin looked at Emma as they left, the way he seemed to know what was enough attention and what was too much. You wanted something like that. You had something similar, but his heart wasn’t actually in it. Just his instinct. You wanted it because the other person loved you, really and truly loved you. And someone as amazing as Hoseok was way out of your league. “Hey, you still with me?” He asked, crouching in front of you. You nodded, giving him a fleeting smile. “Yeah, just…kind of jealous of her and Jin, you know?” He broke into a grin as he chuckle. “I do know. I mean, they have everything. Even if the past week has been absolutely crazy. They have the house, with the yard, and three angels sleeping upstairs with their adopted kids while they go to the hospital to give birth to two more angels. You know, they’re actually married? It’s so rare in the world of hybrids to actually get married, most just mate.” “But she’s human,” You pointed out, shrugging. “Marriage is something we sort of dream about. Some don’t see it as necessary and others believe it very necessary or right, or just plain romantic.” “What about you?” You dared to glance at his face for the very smallest moment. “I don’t know. When I was younger I dreamed about a wedding. My dad walking me down the isle, I’d have a sunflower and lily bouquet, and my family would be getting along. My mom would cry, and my sister would be my maid of honor. Instead, my father and sister are dead, and my mom is in jail and has refused every attempt I’ve made to visit her because I turned her in. And I’m allergic to lilies. I can’t even really walk.” “You’re getting better,” He reassured you softly, his eyes sad as he gently held your hand. “Am I?” You asked, then sighed. “It just feels like it never ends.” He nodded, then got up before picking you up. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, after you get some sleep. Do you want to go to the hospital with us?” You shrugged. “It’s a family thing. I don’t want to intrude.” “You won’t be intruding. You’re part of this family now.” He helped you pull the covers over you. “Besides, they’re going to be cute kids.” “They’ve got good genes,” You replied, half-asleep already. He whispered something in reply, kissing your forehead, but you were drifting to sleep too fast to make it out.

Masterlist. ~ Part 8. ~ Part 10. ~ Masterpost.

Tagged: @jiminslye @musicandmusing @it-is-dana @kimmie113080 @bluebirdphantom

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stenomatt · 4 years

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My Stenography Origin Story

I spent the first few years after graduating college hiding out from the Great Recession (and my own lack of direction) in the restaurant industry with a few side gigs in media production. Eventually I arrived at a point where I was ready to apply to grad school or law school and find a specific field to pursue. I’d even done a prep course for and taken the GRE.

On Sunday, May 16th, 2010, I found myself at a buddy’s birthday party. His roommate was there (despite popular demand, apparently), and I happened to mention I’d aced a typing test in the interview for my part-time job for the Census Bureau. I’m not even sure how it came up.

He quipped, “If you can type that fast you should become a court reporter.” Then something along the lines of, Those people make killer money. He worked in IT for a large Atlanta freelance court reporting firm, and my friends did not like him.

They told me not to trust what he said, don’t get too excited. But he’d also mentioned that these fast-typing people use a different keyboard, that they press multiple keys at once for a whole word or phrase, like playing piano with English. I was very intrigued. Later on that night I sang Duran Duran’s Ordinary World with the birthday boy at a Vietnamese karaoke bar.

The next morning I called where the guy had said he worked. The person who answered the phone told me that there was a school. There was further research and questions, but then my journey began at that school’s very next start date in October.

That little machine still fascinates me and it continues opening remarkable doors in my life. I have a front row seat to the truth in our society that’s stranger than fiction, and I get to learn a little something about nearly everyone’s experience. I’m blessed to call one of the premiere cities in the country my home, and I live in a glorious apartment in that city all because of what the human mind can do with ten fingers on a steno keyboard.

#DiscoverSteno http://www.discoversteno.org

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sollea · 5 years

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Dolorem et Consolationem Ch15

LeaIsa fic. Characters in chapter: Lea, Isa, Even, Ienzo Words: 2354 Read the entire fic on AO3

Summary: Checking housing records to get a new house. Apprentice time.

“Are you two unhappy holding residence in both the homes you currently have?” A slightly raised voice came from Even. It wasn’t angry, just confused and Even had a tendency to emote in a rather loud fashion.

“It’s not that, we want to leave our childhood homes for other reasons,” Isa said plainly, shaking his head and sighing. “We have plans that would be hurt by not moving out.”

“Are you two planning on searching for people again? Might I suggest asking for assistance and explaining your plans before doing things? Many of us would like to help again.”

“Even, I appreciate the offer, but we would very much like to not chance doing what we are doing without a keyblade being present. We’re unsure of how deaths of nobodies and returns of somebodies would be changed without a keyblade in the area.” Isa sighed and shook his head. “And, as I’m sure you know, this isn’t something we should really be experimenting with.”

Heavy silence came from Even, joining with Lea’s. The problem with earning forgiveness was that a person’s guilt was often stronger than any comfort given. A single string of words could drag past mistakes to light, even if it wasn’t what was what anyone had intended.

Even and Lea only briefly locked eyes, but the feeling that created was awkward enough that it caused Isa to step between them to direct attention back to the conversation at hand. Things were in the past and Isa had told the both of them time and time again that they nobody was mad at anyone else. Most everyone looked for atonement in some way and those who looked deserved forgiveness.

Lea rubbed at the back of his head and laughed. “So, yeah, we just wanna make sure if our parents end up coming back, we’re not living where they are. Don’t wanna push anyone else outta their homes either, since everyone coming back’s the same age as before.”

“Ah, yes, that has been strange, hasn’t it? The process that caused people to become the lesser nobodies-”

Even was cut off by Lea coughing and leaning back, scratching at the back of his head and waiting for both pairs of eyes to be on him before speaking. “Should we really be calling them that?”

“What?” Even’s expressions were ever-changing, so Lea had always found it funny to mess with him to get new, incredibly funny faces. Sometimes it really felt like maybe there could have been ways for them to have stopped hurtling the world towards the fall and be a weird part of the science family.

Lea almost wanted to have that. It took him a few moments to pull himself back to make fun of the scientist.

“Lesser? Like we were better than them?”

“I can tell you’re feeling better about what transpired between us if you’re making comments about things you don’t care about.” Even frowned, shaking his head at the childish antics.

“Nah, I totally care about this,” Lea said with a smug grin on his face.

“No you don’t,” Isa said, rolling his eyes back at Lea.

Lea shoved at Isa’s shoulder with a laugh. “Wow, thanks, Isa. Not gonna let me have any fun today.”

“We have things to do and leaving a 6 month old husky puppy alone only works for so long.” Isa frowned and shook his head, brushing off his annoyance at being shoved.

“I told you we shoulda brought him along. Ienzo loves him,” Lea insisted.

“Not in the lab he doesn’t,” Even said, eyebrows furrowing.

“Nah, he likes him in the lab, you’re just no fun.” Lea snorted.

“Have you taken your dog that you don’t even trust at home into the lab?” Even frowned, his entire face twisting up in displeasure.

“It’s not that we don’t trust Balsam, it’s that he gets lonely,” Lea said with a roll of his eyes.

Even rolled his eyes and gestured for the two younger men to follow him. “If you wanted me to hurry, you should have just said so instead of letting us stand around.”

The younger two knew not to bother with any additional arguments against what Even said. Talking while walking had been what they’d wanted the entire time, but asking for a new house had stopped Even in his tracks. Lea bumped his hand against Isa’s as they walked, hoping to have it held, but Isa didn’t respond.

“While you two are here, there’s been discussion in the castle over how you used to be important assets to our team while we were unaware of your true standings,” Even spoke evenly, not allowing any interruption with his words’ spacing.

However, he took a breath, leading to Isa interrupting. “We were apprentices, yes, but some of you treated us as experiments ourselves. We died in the coat, you surely remember that.”

“Well, yes! But beyond that. You were very-”

“Useful. Yes. We know.” Isa sighed and shook his head. “We’re all working towards apologies, but that doesn’t mean all has been forgotten. You know that. It’s why you can’t be around Lea for extended periods of time. You’re capable of irrational fear and grudges that have been forgiven.”

“Still, you both have a job here if you ever change your mind. We would all like a second chance at truly working with you, smart as you used to be.”

“Thanks, but I’m busy being a keyblade wielder,” Lea said with a wave of his hand.

“And I will not work here until Ienzo is king. I want someone I trust in control.” Isa spoke firmly, not caring who heard him. Forgiveness was something earned and didn’t have to be verbally asked for, but sometimes the words used to ask caused apologies to be left unaccepted.

“Besides, Isa’s got a keyblade now too, so he doesn’t need the job,” Lea said with a proud grin, watching Isa cringe out of the corner of his eye.

“That holds no bearings on what I can and can’t do. I haven’t summoned it more than twice.”

“From what I’ve been told about keyblades, someone must first bequeath a keyblade to the person who later summons it outside of certain circumstances,” Even began, looking at Isa as if he hadn’t heard the discomfort in the younger man’s voice. It was likely he hadn’t and the curiosity had taken over. “Did someone give you your keyblade in any manner?”

“No.” Isa’s answer was short, not wanting to discuss it further.

“Don’t think anyone gave me mine, actually,” Lea said, rubbing at the back of his head as he thought about it. “Maybe when Ven kicked my ass with his toy one?”

“I’d like to stop trying to figure this out and continue walking. I want to have a house decided on within the next year.” Isa spoke with an edge, irritates by the continued discussion of a topic he hated.

“Of course. Let us continue,” Even said with a nod, leading the two deeper into the castle so they could search the old census and housing records from before the fall. “Would you two like to stop by the lab? It’s been a while since you’ve come by and I believe Ienzo misses having someone younger around.”

Lea snorted at that. “Last time we were here, I told him to shut it. Which was a little shitty of me after… Well, I’m sure he’s mentioned what happened.”

“No. He has not.” Even raised an eyebrow and Lea had to push through wanting to laugh at the man’s face when talking about serious things.

“Let’s not talk about it right now. Don’t wanna think about that stuff too much. Bet none of us do.”

“Ah, I suppose that… makes sense.” Even’s words had a bite to them, but everyone knew nothing would come of it. The past twelve or so years had been hard to stay good through, grudges weren’t being held except for a very select few. The only people who held grudges against the three who walked the halls of the castle together were themselves.

Lea, again, bumped his hand against Isa’s, this time hooking one of his fingers around Isa’s pinky. Isa looked down at their hands, pulling away slightly before he fully processed what Lea was asking for. It was easy to tell Isa had figured it out because his grip on hand was immediate and strong. Isa was shaken to the core over something and Lea searched his best friend’s face for an answer as to what it was.

It hit him suddenly that they were inside the castle when he started talking about keyblades. “Hey, Even, go on ahead? We’ll catch up. I just realized I had something I wanted to say to Isa and I don’t wanna forget it.”

“Something you can’t get memorized?” Even’s voice was flat again, only his face giving away his emotion. Eyebrow raised with a slight quirk of his mouth, Lea knew a smug look when he saw one.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for helping us out with this, no need to make sure I know you’re an asshole.”

Even looked at Lea with a very suddenly exhausted face and shook his head before turning to walk. “I’ll be… how would you say it? Leaving now.”

Lea snorted, immediately distracted from what he’d been planning on doing. Isa squeezed Lea’s hand to bring him back as soon as Even was out of earshot.

“What is it you want to talk about?”

“Well, I said I was gonna make an effort to stop being so selfish. I wanted to make sure I apologized to you right away without having anyone else around.” As Lea spoke, his free hand rubbed at the back of his head. He let out a nervous chuckle. “Don’t wanna let you think I was making you uncomfortable on purpose. I’m just proud of you. I dunno exactly how you got the keyblade-”

“We both know how it happened,” Isa interrupted, staring directly at the floor. “The way I got the thing isn’t even a reason to trust it. We held your keyblade together, remember? The night you were trying to make it all stop again.”

Lea blinked and let go of Isa’s hand, standing still for a moment as he professed the truth in Isa’s words.

“You’re right, I guess.” He took in a deep breath and wrapped his arms around the other man, fingers brushing through blue hair. He kissed the top of Isa’s head. “Sorry that thing’s got nothing but bad memories right now. I was thinking, maybe you use it while we try to find our parents?”

Isa was still, not returning the hug and barely leaning into it. “I suppose. I’m not very happy about the idea of being the one to bring my parents back, but that’s not fair to you, leaving you with more of the dirty jobs because I continue to put work onto others’ shoulders.”

“Hey. Isa, no. You stop that,” Lea spoke softly. “Wanna head home? I can get the stuff here finished?”

Isa breathed deeply, remaining otherwise silent. After a few long, heavy moments passed, Isa brought his arms up to hug Lea in return. “I’m fine. It’s no trouble. Just give me a moment and I’ll be fine.”

Lea brushed his fingers through Isa’s hair again and nodded, resting his face on the top of Isa’s head. “Love you.”

Time passed as they stood in one of the castle’s halls, but they didn’t pay much attention to that. With no idea how long it had been, they slowly parted and looked down the hall to where Even had gone. They weren’t afraid of the castle, but with how much they’d been thinking about recently, holding each other’s hand seemed like the best idea.

They must have been out of it for a while because they almost immediately saw Even walking back with Ienzo in tow, carrying papers.

“Lea, Isa, it’s very nice to see you both. Even said you were looking for a new place to live?” Ienzo began to walk faster than the other scientist, holding papers out to Isa. “I trust these will be enough information for you. The homes I have pulled have been vacant since long before the fall. They were in disrepair before the fall as well, but in the committee’s rebuilding efforts, they repaired these as well. You may move into whichever you choose, just tell us when you do so we can keep housing records up to date.”

It was good Isa had prepared himself to keep up with whatever scientist they ended up talking to because Lea hadn’t. While Lea processed Ienzo’s words, Isa nodded and smiled.

“Thank you, Ienzo. I hope we didn’t take too long to join you.”

“Oh, no, not at all. With both Even and I looking, it was simple enough to locate the information. It’s all been recently organized and this information is necessary to know on a regular basis.” Ienzo was still smiling. “If you’d like, I can get someone to help show you around the houses and move things with you?”

“I think we can do it on our own, thank you, Ienzo,” Isa said with a nod, looking through the papers.

“If you’re offering to come with us and hang out, though, that’s totally fine.” Deciding to let Isa deal with looking at the papers he’d been handed alone unless a request came for help, Lea grinned at Ienzo. “Bet you’d like to see how much Balsam’s grown since you saw him, what? Last month?”

“I’d like that very much, thank you.” Ienzo looked over at Even, asking for permission that he’d never tried to get before.

Even sighed and shook his head. “You are an adult, Ienzo. Go have fun, you were already taking a small break from your work.”

“Please let Master Ansem know as well?” Ienzo had bright eyes along with the smile on his face, happy to be spending the day with friends. Friends who were more than happy to have him join them.

#kingdom hearts #lea #isa #even #ienzo #leaisa #akusai

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postapocalyptic-narnia · 5 years

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Any Way the Wind Blows

Chapter 1, complete Word count: 4050

The second the storm beacons flickered off, the fisherman sent Shasta to clear the flooded highway. It was the morning after the hurricane subsided, and his shoulders ached from hours spent hauling debris and raking seaweed and trash from the storm drains so the standing water could drain. Now, he propped his rake against the concrete side of the highway and took a swig of freshwater from his canteen, squinting at his handiwork. As far as the eye could see, the concrete highway he maintained stretched across the glittering sea. He’d unclogged four kilometers of gutters and was pleased to see shining streams of water falling to the ocean below as the tiny lagoons left by the storm on the concrete road shrunk and disappeared.

In the distance, a glint of silver and red caught his eye, winking against the washed-out gray of the road. It grew rapidly, taking shape: a red-uniformed man on a bike trailing smoke. Excitement flared in his chest– an imperial messenger. And not just any messenger; he was coming across restricted waters on the tail of a storm, and without an envoy. This had to be something extraordinary.

“Boy!” The speeder swerved as he approached, splashing Shasta’s bare feet with sun-warmed water. His bike stuttered to a stop and Shasta caught a noseful of the thick smell of burning gasoline. He dropped to one knee, fixing his eyes on the speeder’s muddy boots as he dismounted. “Yes sir!”

“Get up,” the man grunted. Shasta obeyed immediately, taking in his massive shoulders, his haughty expression, the bags under his eyes. “Are you in charge of maintaining this section of the highway?”

“My guardian is, sir!” Shasta said. The man’s clothes were tattered and wet now, but had clearly once been finely made. An officer? Shasta straightened his back, trying to look prudent and attentive.

“I need to refuel my bike and resupply, both with as much speed and discretion as possible,” the speeder said, squinting like he was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Call up your guardian and have that arranged.”

Shasta nodded quickly. “My guardian is probably–” moping in his hammock at home “uh, recuperating in the seascraper,” he finished, pointing at the tip of a salvaged pre-Fever building emerging from the sea. “But I can take you to him. It’s not a long swim, although you’ll have to leave the bike.”

The speeder’s expression went from weariness to fury like lightning striking. “Abandon the bike? You idiot! This thing is more valuable than your life!” he snarled, hitting the body of the bike. Shasta flinched. The rings on his fingers clanged loudly against the metal. “Call your guardian and tell him to bring a tank of gas and then I’ll be on my way.”

“I– I’m sorry, sir,” Shasta said, glancing at the mud-streaked bike. “I don’t have any way to contact him from here, but it shouldn’t take long to swim over. And the coastal end of the road is still blocked so we won’t get any travelers who might damage the bike.”

“Don’t you have a boat nearby we can take to the seascraper?”

“No sir,” Shasta said, his stomach twisting as the speeder’s expression darkened. “Sorry, sir.”

The speeder rubbed his temple, frowning out at the seascraper. It had been the tallest building in the city before the ocean rose, but the fisherman chose it because of its proximity to the highway. It had sheltered Shasta almost all his life, and he knew the pockmarked facade and rusting exterior ladders better than his own face, but for the first time he saw it through the eyes of a speeder: a crumbling refuge for rats and two idiot humans who knew nothing grander.

“It looks like I have no choice,” the speeder growled. “Show me the way.”

---

Shasta surfaced in the near-darkness of the seascraper’s interior, hauling the speeder up with him and guiding his hand to the slippery base of the interior staircase. The man sputtered and spit, clambering out of the water and beginning to climb without so much as a thank you. Trying to quash the disappointment roiling in his stomach, Shasta followed. So maybe the speeder’s exciting adventure didn’t need Shasta. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He grabbed a towel hanging from the wall and began towelling off as the speeder’s sloshing footsteps continued to mount the stairs. Once upon a time, from what he’d heard, this building had housed hundreds of people and scraped the sky. Now its only inhabitants made do with the uppermost levels of a curling staircase that led to the roof. Shasta heard the last step creak as the speeder reached the wide landing where the fisherman spent most of his time. He peeled off his dripping shirt and began drying himself. He could picture the scene perfectly. An open trapdoor letting a column of bright afternoon sun lit the otherwise dim and musty room. One hammock hung near the stairs, with old and molding pictures of distant mountains and long-since-sunken monuments pasted to the wall beside it. The other hammock would be swaying gently under the weight of the old fisherman, a towel over his eyes, a stick of jerky clutched in his wrinkled fingers.

“You shouldn’t be back yet, idiot boy,” the fisherman groused as the speeder’s steps stopped on the landing.

“I’m here to requisition a full tank of gasoline for imperial business,” the speeder said, his voice marble to the fisherman’s gravel. A thud shook flakes of rust from the ceiling over Shasta. Shasta smiled grimly, towelling his hair.

“Good sir– my good lord, I’m so sorry, I thought–”

“What you thought or didn’t think does not concern me,” the speeder interrupted. Shasta wrung out his shirt, eyebrows raised. “All I require is a good meal and the location of your gas reservoir.”

“A meal– yes, I would gladly give you a meal! You may stay as long as you need, my lord. But gasoline is scarce here, and we barely have enough to get us to town as it is– our ration is not so generous that–”

“Are you implying that the empire is stingy with its distribution of resources?” the speeder asked. Questioning his loyalty to the empire if he doesn’t agree. Effective but cruel. “Your son assured me that you would be able to fill my requirements promptly,” he added. Shasta froze. Please don’t bring me up.

“I have no son,” the fisherman snapped.

“The boy on the highway–”

“Shasta is my ward. In exchange for taking him in I got a bigger gasoline ration and the title of roadkeeper. A thankless job,” the fisherman said, bitterness lacing his voice. “And I’m sorry if he mislead you, but we have no excess gasoline. None at all.” That was blatantly untrue. Did they have enough gasoline to give away? No. But did they have a tankful left? Yes. Shasta stood, slung the towel around his neck, and then hesitated. If he showed the speeder where the gas was, he might curry favor– and who knew where that could lead? The new radio they needed? A higher gasoline ration? A position as a mechanic in some far-off speeder outpost? But likely it would lead nowhere and then he’d have angered the fisherman for no reason, and that meant harsh words and hungry nights until the next storm blew, and no gas to boot.

His indecision was cut short with the reappearance of the speeder at the top of the stairs, haloed in light from the trapdoor. “Get up here,” he called. Shasta did, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim sunlight. The fisherman had sat up in his hammock, back curved like a snail shell, and his wispy chin jutted forward when he saw Shasta.

“Listen up,” the speeder commanded, folding his meaty arms. “I haven’t slept in two days and my patience is wearing very thin. I have a badly damaged bike that must be delivered to the capital as soon as possible. You have the good fortune of being the ones who will help this happen. I will have you reimbursed for your donation; if you keep delaying me, I will report you both for insubordination the moment I return to the capital.” The fisherman blanched, turning his bulging eyes on Shasta, who felt like he was navigating between a rock and a wreck. Too far toward either man and he’d be scuttled.

“Sir, maybe we can offer him dinner now,” he told the fisherman, widening his eyes. “And, uh, you two can negotiate then?”

“Perhaps you missed the part where I need to leave as soon as possible,” the speeder said, eyes narrowing.

“No, sir, I heard you sir!” Shasta assured him. “But remember that the highway is still blocked, and it’ll take at least three more hours to clear it.” The fisherman nodded quickly. Shasta chose his words carefully. “And by then it’ll be dark, and the cliffs on the way to Bithersee are treacherous. The census man drove off the edge two years back and they had to scrap his bike, it was so bad. He didn’t do so well himself either. But if… if you feel it would be safer to continue with the light of morning, we could give you a place to rest.” He sucked in a breath and waited.

“You’re saying I shouldn’t start tonight?” the speeder said slowly, unfolding his arms.

Shasta tugged at the ragged ends of the towel. “I couldn’t tell you what to do any better than you know yourself, sir.” He watched weights shifting in the speeder’s mind. More clearly than that, he saw the weariness in the man’s shoulders. The fisherman’s eyes flickered from Shasta to the speeder, but he had the good sense to bite his tongue.

“I won’t be able to drive to shore until morning?” the speeder asked.

Shasta nodded.

He took a deep breath, verging on a yawn. “Very well. I’ll spend the night,” he said.

The fisherman clasped his hands. “Very good! Perhaps after dinner we can come to an agreement over the gasoline–”

“There isn’t much to negotiate–”

“Perhaps we can arrange some compensation that will satisfy us both,” the fisherman said, stubbornly. Now that Shasta had bought him time to bargain, a spark of greed glittered in his eyes. He fancied himself a great haggler. Shasta was struck with the certainty that he would end up parting with the gasoline, but only at an outrageous price, a price that would let him swing in his hammock with a bottle of drink until the next hurricane. “My ward will sleep on the boat and you can have his hammock,” the fisherman said, gesturing magnanimously to Shasta’s hammock. He expected a sharp stab of hurt at being brushed aside like a useless thing once again, but only a dull irritation settled in the pit of his stomach. He was so tired of it. He’d played his part and he was done. That was all he was good for. He dusted his hands and turned to descend to the lower levels again.

“Hold up, boy,” the speeder said. Shasta looked back, hope rising once more. The speeder would thank him, the speeder would ask him to stay, the speeder would need his help to– “Since this was your idea, I want you to stand guard by my bike to make sure nothing happens to it. All night,” the speeder said, his voice hard. “Understood? That’s imperial property and if anything happens–if you lay a finger on it– you and your father will pay the price.” Shasta looked at the fisherman, who nodded, without a trace of sympathy. The tiny flutter of hope was flattened.

“Yes, sir,” Shasta said, and left.

---

Shasta clambered onto the highway beside the bike, dripping again, and lay down on the concrete. The sun was getting low. Without sitting up, he dumped out the contents of the waterproof bag he’d brought: his salvaged plastic canteen, a slightly damp dinner of dried fish and flatbread, the ratty towel as a pillow. The canteen rolled away, tracking water from the puddle forming beneath him. He ignored it, finding the flatbread and biting off a chunk.

The pretense of guarding the bike was vaguely ridiculous. Only lunatics would be travelling the night after a hurricane, and only imperial officials had traveled this highway for as long as he could remember. And who would steal a half-broken bike with an empty gas tank? He rolled over, staring at the bike in question. It really was a mess. A mass of cables twisted around the front like a spiderweb, with sharp clamps protruding from the navigation screen between the handlebars. The gas tank looked like it had been welded on with a different metal, with a boxy chamber affixed equally clumsily to the other side. The exhaust pipe was crooked and stained dark and greasy, and the whole bike was splattered with mud and seaweed.

But underneath all that, it had clean lines. It had been a nice bike at some point. He got on his knees and crawled closer to investigate. It had probably been a nice bike fairly recently, actually. That exhaust pipe would have pulled off completely if it were in use for more than a couple thousand kilometers. Most of these modifications looked like they had been done in the field with either terrible tools or no knowledge of mechanics.

“No wonder the speeder thinks you’re about to fall apart,” Shasta muttered. “He doesn’t have a clue how you work.” He stood up and tapped the screen. It stayed dark. He rubbed it with the hem of his shirt. He should at least be seeing the no-power icon flash. Nothing. He frowned. The speeder had said not to touch– but he would put everything back the way he found it. He could hardly make it worse than it already was. “And who knows,” he said, beginning to unclip the anchors of the cable spiderweb. “Maybe I’ll fix you up and I’ll get some big reward. That sounds real likely.” He investigated the cable spiderweb. It was attached to four ports on the side of the nav screen and two mismatched boxes, one welded to the front fender and the other glued to the bottom of the nav screen. No part of the system seemed to match– or be working with– any other part so he unplugged them all and dropped the tangle of wires onto the highway. “Let’s see if that does anything.” He touched the screen again.

It lit, dimly. He cheered. White text appeared against a dark background. Shasta bent over it, shading the screen. “F– Fih– Fin–”

A robotic voice read aloud, “Fingerprints detected. Testing fingerprints.”

“Wait, no, don’t do that!” Shasta said, his smile sliding from his face. The last thing he needed was for the bike to log his activation attempt for the speeder to see. “Stop that! Go back!”

“Testing fingerprints.” He grabbed the cable spiderweb again, searching for the right clips. “Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown. Hello, friend of Narnia.”

He dropped the web. “What?”

“Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown. Hello, friend of Narnia.”

“I’m sorry, friend of who?”

“I said, hello, friend of Narnia,” the bike repeated impatiently. “And if you make me repeat that one more time I’m going to self-combust.” Shasta’s eyes widened and he scrambled back a few steps. “Now, we’re in dangerous territory and my fuel cell–” the bike stopped, static crackling. “Where’s my fuel cell? Was I gasjacked? This is terribly inconvenient. Alright, it looks like I’ll need some gasoline and then you and I need to get to the Narnian embassy as quickly as possible.”

Shasta shook his head like he had water in his ears to clear. He understood all the individual words the bike had said– well, except ‘gasjacked’– but strung together they weren’t making sense. “I think your scanner may be a little glitchy– I’m not a friend of Narnia. I don’t know who that is.”

“Narnia. A small country formed after the climate-collapse event known as the Fever. Neighbor and frequent rival of the empire in which we currently find ourselves. Ring any bells, smartie?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Shasta said earnestly.

“Then h–” the voice stopped mid word. The screen dimmed to almost black.

Another glitch? Or had the bike’s power truly run out? Stars above, he was going to be in trouble if he broke this thing. “Hello?!” He banged his canteen on the corner of the screen.

“Stop that!” it ordered. Shasta jumped. “You say you have no knowledge of Narnia?”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“No need to call me sir, I’m a navigation AI, not a lord– I’m authorized to brief you with mission-critical information only. Here it is. This empire has been skirmishing with Narnia for years, seeking assimilation and/or subjugation. This has failed in part due to Narnia’s superior technology. For this reason, it is vital that I am not taken to the capital in the hands of an imperial speeder. On the contrary, I must get to the Narnian embassy to deliver vital intelligence from the battle-front.”

“But you can’t go anywhere without a speeder driving you,” Shasta said.

“And that, friend, is where you come in.”

Shasta’s mouth flapped like a fish’s. “Where I come– I– I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Sneak me to the Narnian embassy in the imperial capital,” the AI said evenly. “You will be rewarded richly, I’m sure.”

“I think this is a mistake,” Shasta said. What a thought. Just disappear into the sunset on a stolen bike. Stolen twice-over, apparently– from Narnia and then from the speeder. “I’ve never been out of sight of the ocean before. I’ve never ridden a bike. And I’ve certainly never been to Narnia.”

“Your fingerprint was tagged in my database as a friend of Narnia. Most Narnian citizens don’t receive the title. Of the friends of Narnia in my database, they are all leaders, diplomats, inventors or heroes. People who are implicitly trusted to do what’s best for Narnia and protect its people from collapse or capture.”

The AI’s monotone words filled Shasta with unjustifiable warmth that he struggled to tamp down. “You’re saying I’m someone special,” he said skeptically.

“Do you not want to be?”

Shasta made a face, unable to identify the emotions sizzling through him. “Even if I did– it’s not possible. You realize that, right? The speeder must have messed up your database.”

“The speeder can bypass the keypad and hijack the engine, but no one in this whole empire can touch my database.” Does it have an answer for everything?“If it weren’t a mistake, would you do it? Would you help Narnia?”

“Your scanner’s all grimy. It misread my fingerprint,” Shasta insisted.

“Scan it again,” the AI said. A pulsing white circle appeared on the screen. Shasta stared blankly at it, hands unmoving at his side. It would be very, very easy to press his finger, have it reject him, and return to life as before. Except then he would spend the rest of his days wishing it hadn’t been a mistake. But what if, whispered a tiny and electric part of his mind, it’s not a mistake! Would that be better or worse? Questions circled like buzzards in his head. His vision blurred. Do it. He blinked his eyes clear, took a deep breath, and stabbed his finger at the screen.

“Testing fingerprints. Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown.” The AI paused. “Hello, friend of Narnia.”

“Fingerprints accepted. Clearance level D. Identity unknown. Hello, friend of Narnia.”

Shasta stared blankly at the words, unable to read them. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake.

“Will you come?” the bike asked. It wasn’t a mistake it wasn’t a mistake it wasn’t it wasn’t it wasn’t.

“Give me– I–” he shook his head, blinking rapidly. “I need a minute. To think.”

The bike’s screen silently lit with a ticking clock. 1:00. 0:59. 0:58. No! No, he couldn’t go! He felt panic rising in his chest at the very thought. The vast horizon seemed to fold in on him. The other friends of Narnia, the people who were meant to carry this out, were leaders and diplomats, impressive, smart people. He was no one. He was the idiot boy who no one was ever pleased with.

0:42. 0:41. He had to stay. He clung to the shreds of what he knew. The life of a fisherman’s ward. Weathering monthly hurricanes, raking seaweed, the narrow boat, the hot asphalt, the twisted thread that tied him to his guardian. It was all he was meant for.

0:30. 0:29. He knew his use, and he knew his future. If he stayed he would eventually set foot on the shore– when the fisherman died, and Shasta took his place. He would catch fish for food until he sank to the bottom of the sea and returned the favor. In the pit of his stomach, something twisted.

0:23. 0:22. Or could he go? He could hardly wrap his head around the concept of leaving. Of course he wanted to. He’d been dreaming about escape for as long as he remembered, pasting magazine pictures of far-off places next to his hammock and sneaking to the roof at night to look at the dark coast across the star-covered sea. But there was an ocean of difference between dreaming about leaving and actually cutting ties. He’d imagined when the chance came, it would be exciting and clear-cut. This wasn’t.

0:17. 0:16. He inhaled deeply, the familiar smell of salt and sweat filling his nostrils. Across the sea, the setting sun set the sea afire. Behind him, if he turned, he would see the smudge of coast he’d watched for years and on which he had never once set foot.

0:09. 0:08. Maybe wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this was a sign that he was ready. The thought rang through him like a bell. He could truly leave, and not look back.

0:06. It was time.

0:05. All he had to do was ride a bike. Could that be so hard?

0:04. Unbidden, giddiness bobbed like a buoy in his spirit. He almost laughed.

“Three, two, one–”

“I’ll go!” he said, loudly, then again, in a lower voice, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ll go.”

Three hours later, Shasta hauled himself over the railing of the highway once more, dripping wet. Behind him, the seascraper was dark. Overheard, the moon was fat and bright. He slid his waterproof bag onto the ground and took out his most precious and dangerous cargo: a sealed tank of gasoline. He popped open the valve on the side of the bike and carefully refuelled it, the smell of gasoline sharp in his nostrils. He screwed the valve shut and tapped the bike’s nav screen. It light up.

“Hello, friend of Narnia,” the AI said quietly. If its voice had intonation, Shasta might think it sounded… pleased?

“You can call me Shasta,” he whispered. “And I got everything without them waking up.”

“Clothes? Food? As much water as you can carry? Ration stamps?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, carefully unloading each item from the bag. “I even grabbed some rope and bandages.”

“Excellent. Well done, Shasta.” Shasta searched the bike and found a low-slung trunk behind the seat, into which he quickly placed his belongings.“Tie the empty gas can to the back. It may be useful later,” the AI instructed. Shasta did, and then hesitantly straddled the bike. “Are you ready?”

“Good to go,” he said, his voice higher than normal.

“Alright. The throttle is on the right handle bar. Twist to accelerate. The little lever by your right hand is to brake. I’m calibrating the auto-stabilizer to your weight, so don’t worry about falling– just go slowly and try not to crash. You can do this.”

“Can I, though?” Shasta asked, laughing nervously.

In response, the engine sputtered to a start. “Go.”

Shasta took a deep breath, took one last look at the seascraper he’d called home for so long, and then twisted the right handle bar and started towards the coast.

Tagged: @lasaraleen

#any way the wind blows #masterpost #narnia fanfic #post-apocalyptic narnia au

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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https://medium.com/@CleverTitleTK/their-own-two-feet-8ddd1dbb1602

You have to read this article on the immigrant roots of Ken Cuccinelli and yes his public charge grandparents when they arrived in this country with no education or money. Jennifer has done a great job of documenting(See Website For Documents) his family's immigrant history. His hypocrisy is rich. PLEASE READ 📖 AND SHARE. TY 🤔

😂🤣😂🤣

Their Own Two Feet

Jennifer Mendelssohn | Published August 30, 2019 | Medium | Posted August 30, 2019 6:15 PM ET

As the new public face of the Trump administration’s draconian immigration policies, acting USCIS Director Ken Cuccinelli has wasted no time stirring up collective ire. Most notably, he set off a firestorm of criticism by rewriting the iconic Emma Lazarus poem that has long functioned as a kind of unofficial American immigration mantra. “Give me your tired and your poor who can stand on their own two feet and who will not become a public charge,” he proudly told NPR’s Rachel Martin, who somehow resisted the urge to burst out laughing and/or slap him upside the head. (You can read several historians’ takes on the public charge rule here, but suffice it to say that the concept, which was meant to weed out only the very, very least desirable of immigrants, has never been enforced as rigorously as Cuccinelli is suggesting.)

Cuccinelli later elaborated thatLazarus’ poem was “referring back to people coming from Europe where they had class-based societies, where people were considered wretched if they weren’t in the right class.” Wink wink, nudge, nudge, we hear you! And if you had the word “Europe” in Bigotry Bingo, drink!

For the past two years, I’ve run a project called #resistancegenealogy, which looks at the family histories of public figures in order to show just how similar so many of our stories really are. Cuccinelli’s very public numbskullery definitely set a new record: never before I have I received so many texts, tweets, emails and Facebook messages from people so eager to learn about someone’s family tree. (Side note: Never before have I seen so many people who’ve never done genealogy try to do it themselves and get it so very very wrong. You realize more than one person in a town can have the same name, right? And that not all records are online? And that other people’s public family trees are very often…wrong? Here, read this.)

And never before has a family history — or at least the Italian half of that history that I’ll address here — been so utterly unsurprising. I mean, where did you all think the story of the Cuccinelli family of Hoboken, New Jersey was going to go, really? C’mon now.

And so, here I am, just a girl with some documents, standing in front of her country, asking it not to betray its immigrant past. Asking it to remember that welcoming the “wretched refuse of your teeming shore,” even when that “refuse” comes with little more than grit, determination and a desire to do better for their children, is a bedrock American value, a value that allowed many of you reading these words right now to be here. It’s a value that allowed Ken Cuccinelli — descended from Southern Italians of modest means and little education who would likely never pass muster under the proposed changes — to be here. I mean, hellooooo? Were you listening at allduring the 4th grade unit on immigration?

Cuccinelli called a New York Daily Newsarticle about his family history (albeit one that identifies the wrong ship’s manifest as his great-grandfather’s) “intellectually dishonest.” Any comparison to past immigrants, he maintained, was invalid because “the welfare state didn’t exist back then.”

Nativists love to fall back on this argument, but they also still love to contrast the behavior of current immigrants with what they believe to be their own ancestors’ spotless — and “legal!” — immigration and assimilation histories, despite the fact that comparisons to “legal” immigration at a time when there were almost no immigration laws for Europeans to break are inherently problematic. And despite the fact that the historical record is often at odds with their starry-eyed, mythologized understanding of their ancestors’ pasts.

“My great-grandfather knew upon arriving in the United States that he had to learn English and that he had to work hard to succeed in this country,” Cuccinelli told the Daily News.

“My family worked together to ensure that they could provide for their own needs, and they never expected the government to do it for them,” he said at a press briefing.

I’m so very very tired of telling you this very same story over and over again, but since so many of you asked — some less politely than others, btw, can we please work on that moving forward? — let’s go to the videotape and look at the Cuccinelli family story, shall we?

THE CUCCINELLIS

Ken Cuccinelli’s paternal grandfather, Dominick Luigi Cuccinelli, was born in Hoboken, New Jersey to — are you sitting down? — Italian immigrant parents who’d only been in the country for about ten years. Ken’s great-grandfather was Domenico Cuccinelli (né Cucciniello) born on the 6th of December, 1874 in Avellino, Italy. His 1897 marriage certificate identifies him and his wife, Fortuna Preziosi, as farmers.

In March of 1901, Domenico became part of the massive wave of Italians who lit out for greater opportunity and stability in America, sailing on the SS Patria from Naples. Identified as a “laborer,” he arrived at Ellis Island with $8.75, equivalent to about $260 today. His contact in the U.S.? An unnamed cousin already living on Adams Street in Hoboken.

Ancestry indexed this record under “Camiello.” Which may be why you couldn’t find it.

Domenico’s wife Fortuna would follow her husband to America the following year on the Algeria, arriving at Ellis Island with their two small children and $20.

It’s important to remember that for all our talk of welcoming the huddled masses with open arms, American immigration history also has a pronounced strain of ugly nativism, a rather ironic twist for a nation founded on stolen land. (And we’re talking here only about immigrants by choice.) Which means that Ken Cuccinelli’s immigrant family was subjected to the very same brand of bigoted suspicion that he is now trying to inflict on others. The Ken Cuccinellis of the early twentieth century — though they didn’t typically have last names like Cuccinelli — were just as insistent that people like the Cuccinellis didn’t have the right to become Americans. That they wouldn’t fit in. That they had nothing to offer and would only be a drain on “our” resources.

“[Italians] are coming in waves and think they have a right to come….There has been a surfeit of unskilled illiterates for years and the people do not want any more of them,” opined the Jersey (City) Journal on November 29, 1902, just a few months after Ken’s great-grandmother arrived there.

So what became of the Cuccinellis? Well, the first we see of the family in American records is in the 1905 New Jersey state census. Father Domenico is employed as a laborer, supporting a family of six. And though they’ve been in the U.S. for three and four years at this point, neither parent reported being able to speak English.

But as is so often the case, the Cuccinelli family moved up in the world. By the 1915 census, both Domenico and Fortuna are listed as literate and English speaking, despite his having never had a formal education and her having only completed eighth grade. In 1919, Domenico, still working as a laborer and now living in nearby Jersey City, declared his intention to become an American citizen, a process he completed three years later.

You’ll notice the family’s 1922 address: 401 Monroe Street in Hoboken, where they are also listed in the 1925 city directory. Just a few houses down on Monroe (the entire neighborhood has streets grandly named after American presidents, incidentally) was another family headed by Italian immigrants — a boilermaker and a midwife. They had a son named Frank just a few years younger than Ken’s grandfather Dominick. Perhaps you’ll recognize the last name and wonder what would have been lost had his immigrant parents been barred.

By 1930, Domenico Cuccinelli owned a home on Madison Street. And by 1940, he and his wife were comfortably retired, living in a house worth $5000, the very picture of the American dream.

THE POLICASTROS

Ken’s grandmother Josephine Policastro Cuccinelli was also the Jersey-born daughter of Italian immigrants: Gaetano Policastro and Maria Ronga (also spelled Rongo) from Monte San Giacomo in Salerno.

A teenaged Maria Ronga (her birth certificate indicates she was 17) arrived at Ellis Island in November of 1903 with her widowed 48-year-old mother, Giuseppa Romano, who has no listed occupation, and three younger siblings. Giuseppa’s husband Giuseppe Ronga, a tailor, had died in 1901 at the age of 44, which may have played a role in their decision to move. With all of $5 between the five of them, they were detained at Ellis Island — as indicated by the “S.I.” for “Special Inquiry” stamped by their names in the margin of the manifest. The “Record of Aliens Held For Special Inquiry” list indicates the reason they were held, abbreviated as “L.P.C.;” it stands for “Likely Public Charge.” So yes, the great-grandmother of the man now beating the drums to tighten the public charge rule was…labeled a likely public charge herself.

After a day’s detainment and a hearing — at which Maria’s older brother Vincenzo, who paid for their passage, would have likely been called to testify that he could support his mother and siblings — the family was allowed to enter the United States, as were more than 98% of those who came through Ellis Island.

But make no mistake: there were many who would have happily sent the Rongas packing. Witness this Judgemagazine cartoon from the very year they arrived, which depicts southern European immigrants as filthy rats, bringing crime and anarchy into the country. (Nice Mafia hats, right?) Doesn’t this sound… familiar?

The new arrivals moved in with Maria’s older brother Vincenzo, now going by the name James, in Hoboken. Ken’s great-grandmother Maria found work as a candy maker, as shown in the 1905 census.

Two and a half years after her arrival, though she is somehow still only 17, Maria “Ronca” (age and spelling are slippery concepts, genealogically speaking) married Gaetano “Thomas” Policastro, a recently widowed father of two with an eighth grade education. Gaetano was also born in Monte San Giacomo and appears to have immigrated as a child in the 1880s.

In 1908, Thomas and Maria had the first of their eight children together, Ken’s grandmother Josephine. The 1910 census shows them living with Maria’s family, including her mother Josephine Romano Ronga. Thomas is working as a salesman at a market. Both the 1910 and 1920 census indicated that Ken’s great-great-grandmother Josephine never learned English, even after being in the country for 17 years. And…so what? Immigrants often took their sweet time learning to speak English, if at all. Their children learned to speak English at school so that one day their great-great-grandsons could become the attorney general of Virginia and maybe one day feel the need to cover up the naked statute in the state symbol. Problem solved.

Though the 1930 census shows the Policastros owning a home worth $12,000, as the nation tumbled deeper into the grips of the Great Depression, like so many Americans, they appear to have fallen on hard times. A series of legal notices in the Jersey Journal(available on GenealogyBank) gesture to the outlines of the story: A lawsuit over non-payment on a $8150 bank note. A foreclosure on the Policastro home on Paterson Plank Road. A bankruptcy hearing. A District Court judgment against Thomas for $450, filed by James Ronga. Would the Policastros have met their own great-grandson’s requirement that immigrants always “carry their own weight?” (According to the Annual report of the Attorney General of the United States, about 1300 of New Jersey’s approximately four million residents voluntarily filed for personal bankruptcy in the fiscal year ended 1931.)

But by 1940, now nearing 60, Thomas Policastro had rebounded. The census shows him renting a home in nearby North Bergen. He is listed as the proprietor of a scrap metal business, and earning $1300 a year, right around the national average. Two of his American-born sons served during World War II. The Policastros proved that they deserved the chance they were given — the chance to have ups and downs and everything in between, the chance to pave the way for future generations to soar.

But one last point. Like the Cuccinellis, the Policastros also had neighbors of note, though they may not have been as well-known as the Sinatras. In 1920, the Policastros lived just a mile away from another Jersey City family headed by a Jewish immigrant who never completed high school and worked for decades at an overalls factory in nearby Paterson. This family was from the former Austro-Hungarian province of Galicia, and had arrived in 1896. Much like the Policastros, this family also eventually found themselves in the pages of the local newspaper. In 1940, the patriarch was arrested with his son-in-law and two other men on charges of stealing from that very same overalls factory; the charges were later dropped and the sentence suspended after they made restitution. But all of that Jewish immigrant’s grandsons would go on to college and upstanding careers. Two served in the military. One became a lawyer. One had a master’s degree. And in the fall of 1986, one of that immigrant’s great-granddaughters left Long Island to enroll at the University of Virginia, a venerable institution founded by an American president. Here she is in the First Year Faces Book, resplendent in a Benetton vest and pearls.

And one of her classmates at that venerable institution? Well, she knew him by his nickname: “Cooch.”

So yes, the scions of two Jersey City families headed by those uneducated and sometimes troubled immigrants seemed to have done alright for themselves. It’s a quintessentially American story, one I see day in and day out doing genealogical research: immigrant narratives are messy and imperfect and complicated but almost universally, they ultimately end with those families in a much better place than they would have been otherwise. That same great-grandfather’s sister, for instance, stayed behind in their ancestral town of Sniatyn and is presumed murdered during the Holocaust. So was my maternal grandfather’s brother, despite his writing a desperate letter to President “Rosiwelt” begging for refuge for his family in America.

How many future Ken Cuccinellis are the Trump administration’s increasingly restrictive immigration policies going to keep out? Who or what are those policies protecting, other than unfounded racist fears that follow in the very worst of American traditions?

Just about twenty years after Ken Cuccinelli’s family arrived from Italy and began their ascent up the ladder of the American dream, the ladder that lifted him to the grounds of Mr. Jefferson’s University and to law school at George Mason, to elected office in the state of Virginia and to a nomination to head a federal agency, Congress enacted the infamous Johnson-Reed Act, which set up quotas specifically designed to keep out people just like them. The number of Italians arriving in America dropped from 200,000 a year in the first decade of the twentieth century to under 4,000.

As Cuccinelli’s own career makes clear, the critics were dead wrong about the potential contributions of humble immigrants like his ancestors. And so is he.

CREDITS: I’m grateful to Megan Smolenyak, Michael Cassara, Rich Venezia and Tammy Hepps, who provided research, translation and editorial assistance.

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