#working at the school we both sometimes teach at as full time teachers and so were my maths teachers from GCSE and they were all making fun

[starstruckwillows]

♡ oh beautiful moon, such sorrow - r.l ♡

starstruckwillows 🂱

requested by @cheezeyfoodles 🌈 i sorta hate how i've written this but we move

teacher!remus lupin x gn!werewolf!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, purely platonic/paternal, mention of death and tiredness

professor lupin wonders if he's ruined your future

you didn't stay in the hospital wing anymore - it was too risky, having someone potentially see you in there every month; every full moon. someone would notice, someone would piece it together.

usually, you settled for your collection of potions. wolfsbane for before the full moon, healing for after, and something to keep you awake for the next school day.

sometimes, though, no potion could keep the wolf ripping into your skin and mind, pulling darkness from every corner of your brain and flushing it through your body.

that night was rough - both you and your professor awoke bloody and brusied in the shrieking shack the next morning. it had taken everything in you to drag yourself back to your dorm.

you trudged into defence against the dark arts feeling like death was wrapping it's achy arms around you in an awkwardly comforting embrace. the chill of the room sent a jolt through your cracking spine.

professor lupin did not chide you for not paying attention for the majority of the lesson. he did not berate the lack of work you did. he just tapped your desk as everyone packed up, lazy as it was last period, to indicate he wanted you to wait behind.

no explanations were exchanged between the two of you - the time for that had long since gone. particularly notable was that lupin had abandoned his constant apologies for the situation you were in. nothing could fix it, so there was no use giving into sleep repellant guilt.

"here." the teacher prompted, sliding a bar of chocolate across the desk to you. you accepted with a weak smile.

there was a beat where he took a breath, clearly wanting to ask you something, but deciding better of it.

you frowned, "what is it?"

"are you worried for your future?"

you pondered for a moment, the chocolate restoring a sense of comfort in your bones, before you answered honestly, "i don't know. i was, at first. but you're here, you're working, despite everything."

remus did not reply, and you knew he wasn't sure whether to believe you or not.

to be safe, you added, "if i turned out like you, professor, i wouldn't be sad about that."

in return, you received the tired smile you were all too familiar with, "thank you, y/n."

there was another pause in which you continued on with your chocolate, while he dug through his desk for something.

he produced a page of blank parchment, and you tilted your head, "what's that?"

"something i confiscated from harry. it's a... it's a guide me and my friends enchanted when we were at school."

you nodded; remus rarely spoke of his time at hogwarts, unless it was pertinent to aiding you with your lycanthropy. you had previously believed that was because it was a bitter time for him, but you begun to wonder if that wasn't the case as he continued.

"we decided to be nosy and cocky and... teenagers i suppose. it was easier to forget what i would face each month when we were together."

tentatively, you asked, "did any of them come back to teach at hogwarts?"

at first, you thought you'd crossed a line, and that the professor wasn't going to reply. but he did.

"no. only one... well, maybe two, made it through the war."

"oh."

no use in saying sorry. it didn't fix the past of the future. it wasn't the expression of empathy people thought it to be, in your humble opinion.

remus sighed, "it's harder to get through a full moon alone when your accustomed to being with others for so long. make sure that doesn't happen to you, y/n, appreciate any help but acknowledge it can't be permanent, no matter what promises are made. can you promise me that?"

you didn't quite understand his desperation, but you agreed regardless, "alright, i promise."

before you left his office, he gave you another record to listen to. it had become something of a weekly tradition for him to educate you on his era of music.

music was a pretty thing. to distract, to feel, to focus.

night had fallen as you returned to your dorm room again, the silver glow of the moon casting ghostly shadows across the others shuffling around and preparing for bed.

settling into your own, you sighed as your damaged body relaxed into the sheets.

from your position, you had a view of the moon, appearing almost full, but of course you knew it was waning now.

oh beautiful moon, the child in you thought, such sorrow for something so peaceful.

taglist:

@anordinarymuse @ell0ra-br3kk3r @kingshitonly

#starstruckwillows #marauders #marauders era #fluff #golden trio era #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #platonic!remus lupin #remus lupin x reader platonic #platonic #hurt/comfort #remus lupin hurt/comfort #moony #gn!reader #remus lupin x gn!reader #dad!remus lupin #dad!remus #daughter!reader #son!reader #child!reader #angst #remus lupin angst #remus lupin x reader angst #werewolf!reader #remus lupin x werewolf!reader

[bewires]

sometimes I see posts going around about various life skills, asking "why don't we teach this in schools????"

and they give me such complicated feelings

because the answers are long and complex imo. like, people are not wrong to demand they get taught how to cook or file taxes or build a shelf or fix a car or whatever, but it's not a cut and dried issue of "this thing should be taught and schools won't do it". and because this is my blog I will proceed to enumerate the reasons I see for it.

schools do actually teach most of these skills. maybe not how to file taxes but many life skills, there is a school class to cover it. Home economics notably teaches a lot of skills not only surrounding cooking but also literally household economics and working with money. However, these classes tend to be electives, so not everyone has the opportunity to take them.

why are such important classes electives? well, I can only speak to the german education system, but it's because the core classes required for different degrees are different. If you want to go on to university someday there is no space in your schedule for life skills classes like home ec. Although if you are in an integrated school you will at least get classes specifically on resume building and work etiquette.

A secondary reason these classes are electives is a lack of qualified teachers, because skillsets in the home improvement and home ec area are universally viewed as being "low skill" areas and teachers trained in those areas tend to learn less.

This is bad. It is a bad thing. It is also a thing no one in educational policy seems at all interested in changing, currently everything is about expanding digital education and enabling more students to learn more and achieve higher degrees. Home ec and home improvement classes are currently seen as the last vestige for the academically ungifted. This is the only place where students with learning disabilities flourish; this is where "unteachable" students go. The skills learned in these classes are utterly undervalued by the state as a whole.

actually, a subject of MUCH debate in the german school system currently is "how much education on basic life skills can we reasonably assume happens in the home?"

Because, you see, as educators we are in the awkward position of both educating and, to a certain extent, helping to raise young people. And when we help to raise young people, we aim to work with their parents cooperatively. However, in recent years, a frequent lament in staff rooms and in actual teacher training seminars is that "parents aren't raising their kids properly anymore" and "we're having to teach them basic social/life skills". To some extent I think these conversations have always happened, but there is a microdose of truth in there somewhere, which is that over the course of the last forty-fifty years we have gone from an economy that allowed for a single-earner household with one parent raising kids full-time to an economy that does not allow for that, meaning the role previously filled at home teaching home life skills often goes missing

This is not to say everyone always had a parent teaching these skills, obviously that is not true. These days we just have a lot more kids with less teaching happening at home in a statistical sense.

Schools, however, were founded with the sense that their dance area is everything academic while family covers life skills, and to take over that area might be presumptive/create conflict.

tl;dr "we should be teaching cooking in schools!!!" - yes, we should, but in order to do that we have to a) dismantle years of prejudice against practical learning as not academic and not rigorous, and b) institutionally clarify that this is an additional skill schools are responsible for teaching, and provide funding and time because I cannot stress enough that we do not have the funding and time for everything we're already doing

#education #cooking #idk rant about the state of education

[thewordstoeverything]

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm a toddler. I'm listening to Mom read. She pauses. She blinks. She continues. Death happens on TV sometimes. My mom's eyes are wet. I don't know this feeling.

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm a child. I'm on the steps at recess. I'm reading a book. I'm always reading a book. My mother is alive so I don't know the feeling exactly. I have lost pets and great grandparents. I cried and hugged my mom when they died. She wasn't normal for awhile after. My grandma isn't normal still.

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm a preteen. I'm in junior high. A peer I've known for years says this after a month's absence. His face is wet and red. He is always quiet now, though he is titled Class Clown in last year's yearbook. My mom cries with me when I tell her. We hug in the car.

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm in high school. My teacher reads out loud to the class. I write my notes for the upcoming essay and the final exam. The author is important. This is a driving force for the character. The teacher pauses; says he lost his mother too. When he reads again, he has to clear his throat. This must be accurate then, I tell my mother later. She says she assumes so, since her mom said the same.

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm in college. I'm listening to my professor. This is bad writing from an overrated author, he teaches. This is telling and not showing. Nobody falls to their knees in real life, he insists. This is a cliche. His mother is still alive, he tells us when questioned by another student. My mother and I gossip on the phone about his arrogance that night.

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm in my early twenties. I delete the sentence fifteen times. I can't get over this block, I tell my mother, rubbing my forehead. It's so cliche. It's not raw enough, I sigh. She works in a nursing home. She sees death often. We call Grandma still. It's fine, she tells us both. Keep the line. They're not literary analysts though. I abandon the project.

"My mother was dead. I fell to my knees."

I'm twenty-seven. I am reading a parody to my best friend. I wrote it when I was in college. It isn't affectionate. It's intentionally written poorly. We are chuckling at the cliches I mocked. My mother is in the hospital. The doctors tell us she will make a full recovery. We are celebrating. My phone rings. Hello Grandma, I answer mid laugh, my best friend listening.

My mother is dead.

I fall to my knees.

#poetry #writing #parental death

[snootlestheangel]

Can we get more bout Truck please

I love all your OCs dude they are the best

This honestly took so long at first, but I am really excited to share this! Truck is my big boy!

I'm gonna break this up actually, cause his backstory got way out of hand from my original thing so I'm gonna do a quick physical description/some of his little quirks before I get into the mess of his life!

He's probably like 42 in my head, so old compared to most of the Shadows but close to Graves's age. Around 5'8", broad build, an absolute unit of a man, hooked nose that has been very clearly broken several times, left ear is a cauliflower ear from a fight he got into as a teen, green eyes, looks angry all the time, has so many callouses on his hands and knuckles, so many scars from fights on his face. Those are little scars, but they're still there. GINGER TRUCK!! He so ginger in my head now and it makes me so happy!

Family: Momma is still alive, and he calls/writes her regularly, visits when he can. Pops died not long after he joined, which hurt like hell but he stayed on his course. His family supported him the whole way through. He's got two sisters, both younger, and he'd commit some pretty bad war crimes if anything bad ever happened to either of them. Surprisingly, he's married. He loves his wife but never talks about her; his life is his and not anyone else's. They don't have kids (yet? can't decide if I want him to have kids or not) but they do have 2 shelter dogs they adopted, and they're the cutest freaking things.

Hates anything carbonated, like sodas and stuff. Either drinks water with a little bit of lemon in it or straight black coffee. Doesn't do sweets (unlike Ness and Flash who live off of sweet stuff). Generally keeps a really good diet and workout routine when he's not in his shop. Such a routine oriented guy that it could only take 2 days to learn his full routine. Day two is just to verify everything.

As I've said before, he struggled a lot in school. It wasn't just his dyslexia (that he didn't know he has until sometime after joining); it was his anger issues. He was constantly getting into fights as a teenager. He had been bullied a lot as a kid. He's a ginger, so already was an easy target for bullying, but then you add that he was really poor compared to a lot of kids in the area, and he just became prime bully real estate. That is until he hit puberty and got tougher and stronger. Then he became a bully to his bullies.

He had to pick up a job in high school to afford lunch, and life was just really difficult in general for him. His parents were incredible people, he still has such a great relationship with his momma, but it doesn't change how difficult life had been for him.

His Pops taking him under his wing and teaching him mechanic things was a huge respite from all the icky stuff life threw at him. He got to spend quality time with his dad, which he rarely got to do as a kid cause of how much the man worked. He got to learn in a way that didn't stress him out and make his head hurt. He got to do things and sometimes his strength was necessary to get something fixed. The mechanic shop and the time with Pops probably saved Truck from getting into much more serious trouble as a teenager, so he feels he owes his Pops his life.

He has a lot of ways to cope with his anger issues that don't lead to either self destruction or hurting others. It's actually why he joined the military in the first place. He was once told by a really horrible teacher that if he didn't "shape up and start acting right" then he'd get shipped off to the army and they'd set him right. It was meant to be demeaning, kind of a way for the teacher to tell him that he's too stupid for the real world, the only people that would take him is the army. But for Truck? Free food, free housing, free education (should he want to try his luck at that again), a lot of benefits like insurance and stuff? Hell, decent pay??? Sign him the fuck up!

Not to mention, he wanted the military to shape him up, to make him "act right". You think other people don't like dealing with his anger issues? He loathes his anger issues. It cost him a lot of good friends and ruined trust with a lot of people cause he'd blow up over something stupid and the relationship would never recover. He ended up in the hospital one too many times (literally only once but given his family's financial issues, it was too many), and that was a low point for his family. He believes/knows it's his fault, and the guilt still hangs around.

The assignment that got him on Graves's radar for Shadow Company is actually how he met his wife. It was several years ago, probably around 6-8 years, but his wife was one of the nurses on staff that helped patch up the unit afterwards. Truck wasn't injured but she had been so worried and insisted on examining him. His teammates tried to discourage her from pushing him, cause he's got a super short temper, but they all were shook when he simply said "Okay, fine." and allowed her to examine him.

He insisted on getting in touch with her afterwards because "she's the one person that can push all my buttons and I'll never blow a fuse" *catch me crying in the corner over this fire sentence that I wrote*

Anyways, that's our boy Truck!!! I love him to death even more so now!!

#thank you for letting me rant about my boy Truck #I didn't know I needed it until just now #snootles's shadow ocs #shadow ocs #shadow company oc #shadow oc truck #snootles's askbox #snootles answers

[el-the-cell]

I think many students my age, especially in the west, don't realize what going to school actually means.

Yes, teachers treat us like shit, and are really entitled sometimes. The experience of going to school is hard, humiliating, very difficult to tolerate pressure-wise. And that is not ok. It is not good.

HOWEVER. It is not fair to think that just going to work instead is the solution. It is still vital that we keep going to school, clench our teeth, fight our way to graduation because otherwise we are fucked.

From the sixties up until i'd say the nineties, students were very politically active, trying to ensure their rights were respected, both as individuals, and as the collective group of students. Student's rights were one of the ways that people below eighteen could actually try to influence actively what concerned their lives.

This does not happen much anymore. The one thing i truly learned in school form the societal hierarchy point of view, was to keep my mouth shut as much as possible.

The effort that was put into making schools mandatory, so that lower class people could be at less of a disadvantage was insane. The hard work it took to get teens to go to school instead of working full time in factories or in the field is not something to forget. School is a right, and a hard earned right to be treasured.

And our government (italy), and i assume many others too, is trying to turn school into something made to churn out workers. They are exploiting our anxiety over not being able to make a living once we graduate, in order to get us to work instead of studying.

With the demographic change, the few young workers can no longer sustain the needs of the ageing population, but the government refuses to let immigrants in, because their whole voter base and popular support is based on the vestiges of fascism.

Young educated people flee the country like they are jumping into the water from the burning sinking ship that it is, choosing to work and study where they can actually get a chance at living a decent life.

All these factors contribute to a huge worker shortage, and the one way this country could think of as a remedy, was to get people into the mindset of finding a job as soon as possible. It's like entering the job market is the only important thing we are supposed to learn about in school.

They force us to participate in utterly useless unpaid internship programs, and it has happened before that students died on the job. There are so many activities that focus on what we want to do for work, not what we want to study or anything like that. And they just keep adding them. We had to endure conferences where the representatives of industries came to promote their corporate hell-scapes in order to convince us to stay and give up on anything else we want to do.

They are so fucking desperate and so fucking bad at appealing to us that it makes me both laugh and feel nauseous. Like wtf. WHY AM I MISSING FOUR HOURS OF PHYSICS TO HEAR A COP TRYING TO CONVINCE US TO BECOME COPS AS WELL. WHAT THE FUCK, PLEASE TEACH ME MAXWELL'S EQUATIONS INSTEAD YOU FUCKING COWARDS

#fuck the system #politics #student rights

[mustachecody]

INFO PAGE!

Mustache Cody Prompt Bingo!

Hello all! Sorry for the incoming wall of text, but here you can find all the important info pertaining to this prompt bingo event. We ask you to please have a read-through of this post before you submit a request for your Bingo card! It may be helpful if you have any general questions too. :)

What is a Prompt Bingo? 

A prompt bingo is where themed prompts are handed out in the form of a bingo card. In the case of our bingo, each card consists of 24 random prompts from our list, +1 free space in the middle, and you can fill them out at your own leisure/pace with the loose goal of completing one full column/row, aka a Bingo, or all the cards on your square, which would be a blackout! 

Here is an example card.

What is Mustache Cody?

We are glad you asked. 

Mustache Cody is the silly name we have come to refer to this modern Codywan AU we have created. The joke stemmed from this post here, and spiralled out of control. In this au, Cody has a mustache, and Obi-Wan does not. And they both sometimes have mullets. Cody is a shorts and socks and sandals-wearing math teacher, Obi-Wan is a very well-dressed gym teacher, and they both teach at the same high school. Other vague ideas we had is Cody and Obi both enjoy rollerblading, Quinlan is a substitute physics teacher, Yoda likes to steal people's tea in the teacher's lounge, etc…. This AU is very much Codywan, and can be quite chaotic.

If you are interested in seeing existing fan works for the AU, check out the Tumblr blogs of the admins @sunflowersinheaven and @journen(really, we have drawn a lot for it, lol), consult this master post we have created for all the content(because others have made some AMAZING content for this au as well!), or join the Mustache Cody Discord server to find all that in one location and discuss more ideas further, or just hang out! 

Why are we doing this?

Because we thought it would be fun! 😏

Posting

The window to post your works for this event opens on October 31st! We ask you to wait until then to start posting any of your completed fills. And of course, even after October 31st, you can request a card! There are no time limits to request a card or complete your fills, but likely in late December we will be closing the form and, if all goes well, resuming with a somewhat new list of prompts at some point in the new year! 

And be sure to tag us in your completed fills, which we will be reblogging! And also hashtag it #mustachecodybingo. We also have an AO3 collection where you can submit them as well. As well, be sure to include a picture of your Bingo card with the appropriate square crossed off with every completed fill(easy to do in your phone's image editor or in any drawing software!).

We are so excited to see your submissions!!

Rules

For each of your fills, Cody has to have a mustache. Or if not, the fact that he is mustache-less must be relevant somehow in how you interpret your prompt. Ie...Cody has shaved, and Obi-Wan is horrified. But we encourage you to ‘stache your Cody!

You do NOT have to stick to all of our ideas for this au exactly. Interpret the prompts however you like, no restrictions or limitations on creativity. You can bend things here and there if you have a good idea, and it suits your story. We aren't strict or picky. We just want you to have fun! We do just ask you to stick to the rough themes/guidelines of our modern high school teachers codywan au.

You have the option of swapping out any prompt with any other prompt on your sheet one time per card, and you can interpret the free space with anything you think of(however, as the first day of the Bingo is October 31st, we gently encourage you to consider Halloween as your free space prompt if you so desire!). 

You can choose whether you'd like your card to have the possibility of including some NSFW prompts(though we only have a few to include in the randomized pool). But, this does not mean you cannot interpret any of the other prompts as NSFW!

One fic or piece of artwork can fill multiple prompts at once! 

After achieving a bingo, or even a blackout, you can request a second bingo card if you like. We do encourage you to try to complete a bingo on your card before requesting a second one, but will make exceptions!! (And if you are requesting a second bingo card, let us know in the google form. We will make sure you get an entirely new set of prompts.) However, no pressure to even get a bingo, have fun filling out any of the prompts on your card!

Writing fills have no length limits, and artist fills can be as simple as a rough sketch. We don’t want to limit people from participating and want this to be a very lax and leisurely fun event, so don’t so much worry about the quality of your fills so much as that you have fun with it! 

Receiving your card! 

If you would like to be sent a Bingo card, please click the link here to fill out the short form with some of your info, and we will send you an email with your own personal card! 

Please give us a buffer of a few hours to two days to email you your card. Both admins are full-time students so our lives are busy. And, if for whatever reason after 3 days you do not receive your card, please DM us and we will get it to you promptly! 

And as always, feel free to send us any asks if you have any questions about the Bingo, the AU, etc... Thanks for reading!

#codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #mustache cody #star wars #fandom events #mustachecodybingo #star wars fandom events #modern au

[johnnys-breastmilk]

Wally anon: It would've probably fared better until they lost the drive to keep doing new things & just started referencing past seasons like AHS has done dnfdshd.

Yesss, exactly. You're seeing the vision with torn clothes. I imagine him wearing those clothes & he bends the wrong way after the outfit has been restricting him all day, thinking if he just. makes it to the end of the day he'll be good, & boom, crotch completely gone, dick flopping out, ass to the world, having to scramble to cover himself up in public, etc. 🤭

Gotta manifest the best possible outcome & multiple seasons to we remain fed with all that good Wally content. 🙌

I'd say he does sometimes with what we know about him. As much of a menace as he can be, he isn't malicious & that's the crucial element that makes him so exciting. Like, he's still gonna be turned on by the thought of being much taller than you & making sure you know it, but when it's just a casual one-on-one, he's very accommodating. 👍

Oh, it absolutely HAS to be top Wally if you end up writng it. I know we've discussed the possibility of bottom/verse Wally, but there's no way he wouldn't take the opportunity to top a teacher he had a thing for to give them their own lesson of his making. 😮‍💨

Yypyupyup. I can already picture him standing over you (once again emphasizing the height difference), resting his chin on your head or neck & running your hands down your body, in full control, until he slips them past your waistband &...I'll let you think of where it goes. 🫣

You get it. Exactly. Even with his past disinterest in being a jock, there's something about him being able to prove his skills to somebody, especially somebody he has the hots for, that really turns him on. And when he sees how much the work he's put you through is paying off so that you're close to being on his level, it sends his ego through the ROOF. 🥴 And then when you have to spend MORE time at school to make up for lost class time, that just means he has more time for your special extracurricular activities.

Yesss. He's ALL about sexual ultimatums for motivation cause he knows he's hot & knows you think so too, so why wouldn't he use the opportunity for an ego boost? You're absolutely correct on both accounts. He wants to tease you & turn you on the entire time, but only so you push harder & harder to finish cause he will NOT let things expand from that until you do. Even if you're both hard & horny, he's going to make sure you finish the drills before you finish. 🤫 But yesyesyes. And when you're sitting in the back corner where it's kind of darker & with less attention on you, he's whispering dirty things to you the entire time to see if he has enough sway over you to make you actually do it in class. It gives him such a thrill watching you fall apart from everything he's doing. 😵‍💫

dgdjfh would you want me to expand on anything we've been discussing or try to think of anything new? I'm obviously up for it, but I want to know how appropriately dirty you'd like for it to be.

That’s so real. AHS just lost dream so I could see ST doing the same eventually.

I take it the torn clothes don’t just stop at his underwear. Jeans, sweatpants, shorts have all fallen victim to it, and some people were graced flashed with the perfection from either the front or the back. I wonder if it lead to anything fun or embarrassing🤭

At least he can’t be killed off which is the best thing ever. Gotta love ghosts😛

Yeah he definitely has a sweet but playful side. It lets him become more of a tease about certain things, like the aforementioned holding things high above your head, using his height to convince you why he should be the big/little spoon, etc. He’s gonna play dirty with his height but at least it’s about sweet stuff.

Ugh Wally making his own lesson as we frustratedly say “Well, Mr. Clark, why don’t you get up here and teach if you think it’s so easy?” after all of his snide comments. Then, the real fun begins, and top Wally is just a different breed😮‍💨

That height difference is just so🫣 I can picture that in my head so vividly and I love it

I feel like, if you were to ever somehow beat him in all of those physical activities. If you’re stamina just so happened to out shine his at a certain point, he’d start trying to get better at things you actually like. Like the stuff at school that you did before you knew he existed, he’d try learning all about those out of spite (and also the underlying care to meet you halfway. You started working out for him, he’s gotta do something similar to repay it.) Yet, it just means you see him more than you already do, because he’ll be there at the same time when you go to the library “coincidentally” reading the same book you had name dropped to him earlier that day. Let’s just say you do more special exercises as a result of this…

It’s the way he would have you changing almost every seat in every class, and even if you couldn’t, he’d probably keep doing it anyways regardless of where you sit. When he’s not “helping” to pass the time in each slow and monotonous class, he’s one-hundred percent whispering all the things he’s excited to do to you once the class(es) is/are over. I can see him being overly greedy if you did end up deciding to switch seats, only to follow his suggestion to relieve yourself in the back of the classroom. Wally says “he’ll keep a lookout” but his eyes are on you the entire time. And he definitely loves making you a mess and watching you make a mess…🫣😮‍💨

You can expand on something in here, come up with something entirely new, or do anything you want! I’m fine with writing whatever (no matter how dirty or taboo because trust me, if you think what you’re sending is “too weird/dirty,” i’ve probably gotten something to a greater degree of that LMAO) and you can send in multiple if you can’t decide on just one🤭

#wally clark x male reader #wally clark x you #wally clark

[akesdraws-blog]

Time to let go

Reader x Turtle of your choice

Warnings: mentions of death, accidents, drama, tragedy

I worked thinking about the TMNT 2012 version, what version did you imagine it with?

•°•°•°•°•

Having learned so many years about the art of Ninjutsu had also given the turtles certain abilities, such as being able to communicate with people who were far, far away from their physical reach.

-Oh wow, see you early today- you spoke with a little emotion in your voice

-Yes, I suppose I needed to see you- the turtle spoke, laughing slightly -You can't imagine what we went through today- she began to speak to tell you about her day

-Well, I'm ready to listen to you, just like always- you told him as you sat down.

-Yes, just like always- added the turtle while she squeezed her hands -Just like always- she repeated again lowering her gaze

°•°•°•°•

The turtles as always were patrolling the city, stopping thieves and supporting the policemen.

But even though they were physically stronger than any human, they still had their limitations and they understood that when they met a young man.

They had saved him from some bullies who were beating him in an alley, just the presence of the turtles was enough for everyone to run away, when they helped him this little boy was not afraid of them, he had just given them a big smile full of gratitude.

Time passed and each of the turtle brothers kept in touch with that little one.

Mikey skated next to him when there was no one else on the ramps, he was the first to take him to the den where they cooked or planned pranks for the rest of the brothers, and sometimes the little one took him to places where there was an empty wall, perfect for the party boy to leave his mark of art.

Raph taught him to knit, it started as a mere curiosity of the little one but for both of them it was quite relaxing, but they didn't only do that, sometimes they got together to watch some games on a projector, when they were from opposing teams they both made fun of each other when they lost some, but when they were from the same team, the victory dance that both created was simply present.

Donnie played online video games with him, together they were the best team that could connect to the network, in addition to the genius boy being a great help when the little one had homework, and for Donnie to be able to read books from the school library It was a really pleasant experience, of course the little one always scolded him when he started to be late with the delivery date.

At the beginning Leo just tried to keep his distance, not get too involved, but over time the little boy gained his trust, both could talk for hours about Japanese culture or even watch a good anime of possibly 100 chapters or more, but the leader could Being himself, he didn't have to be a leader, he could let off steam, or even complain, and the little boy was there to listen without criticizing him, he found a little refuge next to him.

The relationship that was built with the new friend was something unique for everyone, so much so that he even gained the affection of the teacher Splinter, maybe it was because he helped him take care of some bonsai or maybe because Splinter's favorite audience to tell the stories most shameful of turtles.

The team agreed that his friendship with the human was something as unexpected as it was also special, if they needed a word to describe it it would be "Unique".

Because they knew that nothing was perfect, because they had their ups and downs.

How the arguments they had sometimes, from the fact that his friend didn't defend himself against the bullies at school

-I showed you a wrestling hold last time, why didn't you apply it?-Raph asked while he watched as Donnie healed your wounds again

-I did it the first time and they sent me to the address- he replied after complaining a bit about the cotton that rubbed on his broken lip

-That's unfair, what do they teach in the institutions? - Leo said a little outraged by what he heard

-Well, that happens when the bully is the captain of the school team- he added with a slight smile on his face.

-And with this it's over- Donnie said sticking a bandage on your forehead -And your parents haven't talked to the director?- I ask a little curious

-If he were Master Splinter, that principal would get a good ninja-style lecture- Mikey added as he ruffled his friend's hair.

-They don't have time for that, and they're never home, so... they don't notice it- I finished saying as if nothing had happened.

The boys knew about the relationship you had with your parents.

They were business people, always busy and never at home, you were always alone in your room with your books or some games.

But that changed when you met the boys, you didn't spend so much time locked in your room anymore, now you spent all your time in the turtles' den or on the rooftops.

The relationship with the boys simply grew more and more, until from that friendship arose the infatuation with one of the turtles.

It was something so unique and special, they both complemented each other.

They were the type of couple that even though they couldn't fit the definition of “perfection”, they could be called an “understanding” couple, you understood your partner's priorities, and the responsibilities they had in being a hero.

But maybe you understood it too well.If they had planned a date with your tortoise in love, and suddenly had to cancel because of some mission, normally he expected a reprimand but you just told him "Okay", there was no anger or hints behind those words.It was a good thing, or so your partner thought for a while.

That "understanding" began to make noise in your turtle's mind, so much so that she asked you to meet in the place where you became a couple.

-So... what did you want to talk about?- you asked after there was too much silence between you

-I think it doesn't work- your turtle spoke while she looked at any point of the place

-What do you mean?- you asked, trying to sound as calm as possible, but you knew what your partner was talking about.

-I mean us- he put his hand up to his neck rubbing -Don't get me wrong, I love being with you, but... We don't do anything as a couple, we don't even see each other often- he sighed to look towards the ground I didn't feel the courage to see you, I didn't even understand why I was saying that

-Oh, I understand- when you said that you noticed how your partner wrinkled his nose a little and you just played with your fingers and then smiled slightly -Can we have one last date? This weekend, what do you think?- you asked with certain hope, you didn't want things to end like this

Your turtle was about to respond until his radio rang for a security alarm, so they just agreed to agree later.

You didn't say anything, you just left until you got home and once you were in your room you just sat in a corner where you started to cry, but you didn't make a sound, not a single noise, it was just a silent cry.

You knew that asking for a date after what your partner said was something that would only hurt both of you, but you just didn't want it to end that way, maybe you just wanted one last memory of that relationship.

The days passed until the weekend arrived, they had agreed to meet in a nearby building in Times Square.

You had arranged yourself as on your first date, it generated a bit of nostalgia.

The moment of that day came to your mind, how your turtle was so nervous that it got tangled up with its own words, you even remembered how because of the nerves some things that your turtle prepared had fallen to the ground, you remembered everything and you could not help but laugh slightly , you only remembered the moments that followed afterwards.

There were not many as you thought but each one you remembered with great affection.

But when the phone rang you only saw the message from your turtle, he had another important mission, so the appointment had been cancelled, you didn't want to know anymore, so you just turned off the phone.

Maybe you should have read the rest of the messages.

The Turtles were after some Shredder followers who had hidden bombs around the city.

So far they had managed to find and defuse 3 bombs in time, they captured some ninjas for interrogation to discover the last bomb before it was too late.

-We thank you very much for your collaboration- thanked one of the officers -We will continue trying to get an answer- he added while other officers took away some ninjas

-We must hurry, there is still a bomb and Donnie still can't find it- Leonardo spoke with concern in his voice

-They won't arrive on time- spoke one of the ninjas while he laughed inside the patrol

-You'd better start talking before you can't!- Raph threatened, taking him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him slightly out of the vehicle.

-Time's up- was the only thing the ninja said.

Saying that, soon the sound of a distant explosion was heard, they listened to the radio of one of the officers and with fear your turtle heard that the bomb had exploded in a building in Times Square.

The turtles ran as fast as possible, while each one tried to contact you, but they did not achieve anything, you did not respond, much less you answered the messages.

They just hoped that you had gone home, or maybe with April, or anywhere, but far from that place.

Upon arrival they only saw people running in panic, some firefighters and officers had arrived to help the people who managed to get out, each turtle separated to help the rest of the people and get some out of the rubble.

Again your turtle tried to call you, and he felt relieved when he heard the ringtone you had, that characteristic tone song you had, he moved carefully following the sound, but when he arrived at the place he froze.

Everything around him seemed to have slowed down.

Your phone was ringing but from among the rubble of the building that had recently exploded, the place where they would have their last date.

With his hands he began to remove stone by stone, as quickly as possible while asking with all his strength that you be okay, that you will look at him with that smile that you loved so much and tell him that he was okay, his brothers also came to help until that they finally managed to reach you.

Unfortunately not on time.

It had been a few years since you left, they not only lost a friend, they lost a part of their family.

And your turtle had not been the same as before.

But who would be?

She had gotten so into protecting people and training that she had reached a new level.

A level where communication with you was allowed.

Splinter had told him that he shouldn't mess with the world of the dead, it wasn't good for his son, but he just needed it.

He needed you.

He could still remember the first time he made it, when he could see you again, when he could see your smile and he could hug you, you were there again.

And there they were, speaking again from an astral plane.The same as always after so many years.

-It's not healthy that you always remember that- you spoke to get him out of his head

-I forgot that in this plane, minds are completely connected- said your turtle while massaging his neck

-That's right- you spoke calmly -You look tired- you commented as you gave him a smile

-Yes, I look horrible, you can't imagine what the streets of New York are like- said the turtle with an amused tone -It seems that the bad guys come out of any corner now- she added while laughing

-I wasn't talking about that- you spoke while you shook your head -You must stop- when you saw how you managed to make me look at you, you just smiled the same as you always did -You must stop- you repeated once more

-Stop talking? Sure, it doesn't matter just to be silent, like the first time we connected- a smile formed on his face, one that seemed so difficult to maintain until he felt your soft hands on his cheeks.

-I died- you spoke while caressing his cheeks with your thumbs -I died and you must let me go- you finished saying

-I just... I need more time- the turtle took your hands while trembling

-Years have passed... You must let me go- I was trying to make your partner see reason

-I can't... I can't do it- she denied several times with her head -I can't go on without you- tears began to well up in her eyes

-Of course you can- you approached to hit your forehead with that of your turtle -I know you can... I love you and I will always love you- the shine on your body was decreasing with each word

-Please... Not yet- the turtle hugged you tightly, trying to keep you from leaving his side.

-It's time- you returned the hug while little tears began to come out of your eyes too -You won't see me, but I'll be there, as long as you keep moving forward- the shine on your body was less and less, beginning to be a transparent image

Once you completely disappeared from her arms, your turtle began to cry bitterly, she hadn't been able to cry since you left.

Now the only thing left to do is move on for everything they had lived together and for what he now had to live.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Tags:

@post-apocalyptic-daydream . @turtle-babe83 . @turtlesmakemehappy . @dilucsflame33 . @thelaundrybitch . @scholastic-dragon . @leosgirl82 . @tmnt-tychou . @mackbunny . @happymoonangel .@lazyafgurl

#tmnt fandom #tmnt 2016 #tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2014 #bayverse donnie #bayverse mikey #bayverse raph #bayverse leo #bayverse turtles #tmnt donatello #accidents #foot clan #fake death

[achaiapelides]

Kit's Diary

Chapter 7

Dear Ty,

today, Leo and Sam visited after school, so I guess you might want me to tell you about that.

We had sport again today, but I didn't almost die this time because our teacher decided to teach us how to use a Waveboard instead of doing something too straining.

Afterwards I had art. The teacher, Miss Gabriels, really thought she could convince me, that I'm good at painting. She gave us a box with folded papers in it. We had to draw three of them out of the box. On each paper was a word and we were supposed to paint something that involved all three words. I got spoon, dice and chicken. I spend the rest of the first hour thinking about what I should paint, until Leo, who was already done with her first painting, suggested I could draw a bowl full of chicken soup with dice noodles and a soon on the side. I tried to paint it with watercolours and... eh... Miss Gabriels couldn't quite guess what it's supposed to be. But she said I should try abstract art. To my defense, I never tried to paint with watercolours, so it's not my fault.

After art we had maths again, the teacher made us watch a video he made about the topic and then gave us some tasks we have to do for Monday.

Then Leo, Sam and I went to my place, because Tessa invited them for lunch. They both immediately fell in love with Mina and Mina declared them her new best friends. Like she didn't tell me that I'm her best friend yesterday. So loyal... I see.

Anyways, after lunch I showed them our library and since Leo said that we would look really smart, when we did our homework in the library, so we decided to do that and spend the whole time in the library in the library, trying to answer our analysis questions for English, while laughing at our attempts to impersonate the two love birds. We also researched on the books and movies for the history project and it was quickly decided that, since we all wanted to read something about the Elizabethan Age, we would work together. We found some books about Elizabeth I:

- The Virgin's Lover by Philippa Gregory

- The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn by Robin Maxwell

- Legacy by Susan Kay

- Elizabeth I by Margaret George

- The Tournament by Matthew Reilly

Now we just have to choose which one we like best. I think the first two are the most interesting. We decided to read the summaries of the books, choose one and decide on Monday together which one we will choose.

After that we ended our homework session and went to my room. I don't remember who had that idea, but we decided to play "never have I ever", but without alcohol because, you know, we're all still underage.

At 7 pm on point, Mina interrupted us, because she wanted to show Sam and Leo our house. If you never saw Cirenworth before, you should know, it's big. Very big. So, we spend the next hour following Mina around the house and afterwards ate dinner.

Before they left, Tessa allowed Leo to borrow some books from our library, and guess which books she took? Sherlock Holmes! I didn't even know we had them. When we see eachother again, you need to read them. There are probably also annotations from whoever read it before in it.

~

Sorry, I had to interrupt here, Mina wanted me to read her a goodnight story. She's so cute. Way more cute than all the other toddlers I've seen. But I might be biased as her brother. Did you also think Tavvy was cute when he was younger?

Sometimes I wonder what it's like to have children. Would we have children if we were together in future? They surely would be cute. Just think about a little you. Awwwww.

Okay, stop simping Kit!

I'm sorry. That was way to cheesy. I'm going to bed now.

Love,

Kit

Now I do need your help: Which of the books would you read?

#shadowhunters #cassandra clare #the dark artifices #the shadowhunter chronicles #the wicked powers #kit herondale #tsc #kit x ty #christopher herondale #christopher jonathan herondale #kit blackthorn #ty x kit #kitty #kit's diary #ty blackthorn #ty herondale #tiberius nero blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #tda

[nyotasaimiri]

Remembering How To Write

Y’all already saw me reblog that one post about the StimuWrite program (twice), but I’ve been having some fun thoughts about it (and introspective discoveries) so it’s time for a bit of a ramble!

If you want to check it out personally, I’ve linked it above, or you can click this link if things break. You never know with Tumblr.

https://eveharms.itch.io/stimuwrite

Also, for courtesy’s sake, I’m going to put a “read more” here so the average dash-scroller doesn’t have to suffer the full long post. But please pass it along! This is a story about learning to work with a different brain, and accommodating myself. I hope it helps you, too.

So part of the reason I’ve been so excited about getting to work again is my misconception that I can only write when I’m “supposed to be doing something else”. Like my actual job, or schoolwork, for example. The vast majority of As Long as We Remember was written during my last year in undergrad, in the margins of my class notes (or sometimes as my class notes, with the actual note-taking happening in the margins). I’d also tuck myself away in a corner in the Student Union between classes and either play Starbound for more screencaps, or type a scene based on those screenaps. Some of you have been here long enough to remember: the days when I could bang out 700-1000 word scenes three times a week. It was glorious, the words never stopped. 

Come summer or winter break, every year, my brain dried up. That was transcription time, when I’d assemble all the handwritten stuff. But I could never really get a solid idea rolling when I was home. They tended to hit when I was out on walks (rarely) or driving somewhere (pretty common), to the point that I started carrying a voice recorder with me at all times because there’s nothing worse than having a brilliant idea or poem smack you when you’re on the interstate and you can’t pull over to scribble it down.

So it went for years, and I’d get some writing done when I was supposed to be editing, because the old ADHD likes nothing more than procrastinating from something that makes me nervous. And let’s be real, there’s nothing more nerve-wracking than sending your work off to an editor, even (or especially) a really good editor. Loving shout-out to both my editor and my main contact at Fantastic Books Publishing, you’ve all heard me sing the praises but they really did a wonderful job taming the anxiety beast. Anyway, it was alright. That’s where Arc Two happened mostly, though the burnout was biting already. I’d get writing done during the rare in-person class too, while working on that Master’s.

Then my job got automated. 

Now this wasn’t awful from a practical standpoint. I was able to devote myself to the degree more fully, and I would have needed to leave at some point anyway to do the teaching practicals (this is something we really need to fix, requiring teachers to do unpaid practical internships, but that’s a side rant for another day). But though I did have a fantastic month as school librarian for summer school, it wasn’t enough. Once that dried up, I sank into a routine of being at home, doing homework, rinse and repeat.

You might notice the lack of writing in this situation. Because writing became painful around this time. It wasn’t depression, or anxiety... Heck, my book got published then! I was over the moon for that! 

But I still couldn’t write like I used to, and I was so scared that I’d somehow used it all up, that I would lose it if I didn’t use it. Or that I’d somehow sold it to public approval, when comments started drying up... something like that. Fear is rarely nice enough to put it into words. I was able to figure out enough to listen to music or an ASMR video in the background sometimes and get words out that way, but... Yeah. You saw things dry up too. You know how it went.

It’s worth noting that until two months ago, I lived for 17 years in a quiet suburban neighborhood where there aren’t any young kids playing outside anymore (we all grew up). No major sound, almost no traffic.

In June, I finally moved out of my parents’ house and into a lovely little condo of my very own. We’re in the middle of everything here. It’s actually walkable, there’s traffic sounds, there’s construction, there’s even a train once or twice a day. I hear my neighbors coming and going by the bang and rattle of the heavy steel-and-glass door downstairs.

And I’ve been writing again. I’ve been drawing again. It’s slow still, because I’m so busy. New kitten to look after, older cat to tend, household to set in order (who knew how many things we take for granted at our parents’ houses, like buckets and dustpans). New job starting next week.

At some point in all this newness and activity, I saw that post about StimuWrite, and it reminded me that I wanted, I needed to create again. So... I pulled up an old story I started long before I ever heard of Starbound or dreamed of publishing, opened the app, and gave it a try. And it bloomed.

Characters I haven’t touched in years are back and alive under my hands. And I’m alive with them. It’s magic, but the kind of magic I can make happen, not the kind I have to wish and wait for. I can understand now, where it all comes from.

I think this is something people don’t realize, when handling neurodivergence. I’m both ADHD and autistic, so I don’t know if it’s one, the other, or both causing my problems. But in the silence and stillness, it was too quiet to think. My brain was somehow too loud for itself, in that silence. I wonder how many other creators suffered this, in the sudden stillness of lockdown, or when they’re isolated in other ways. How many stories are stifled by silence.

I didn’t grow up with my diagnoses, partially because my parents didn’t know better and partially because the stigma was too huge to test me back then. So I barely know about things like stimming. We didn’t have that word when I was growing up. But I’m so, so glad that there are creators out there who understand ourselves well enough to make apps like StimuWrite, and share them so that we realize we aren’t alone in this. Because even if I did somehow stumble into my magic on my own again, finding another noisy classroom to write in, I wouldn’t have understood why, and I would have stayed afraid of losing it.

My words and worlds are part of me, just as the little quirks are. And my community, those with disabilities like mine, they gave that to me. I’m not afraid anymore. I think that’s the core of what I’m trying to say here: that we need to speak with each other, to share what helps and what hurts. Someone, somewhere, needs to feel what you have felt. Community is the single best thing we have.

I wanted to share this courage, this story, in hopes that I can help someone else out of their fears too. Maybe your brain works at least a little like mine: too loud in the silence. Try a little noise. Find something soft or crinkly or nice to touch while you work. Rest, and don’t punish yourself for not making. There will always be ways to get your magic back. It’s part of you, too.

#kae rambles #long post #adhd #autism #my life #neurodivergence

[anthrofreshtodeath]

All the Things a Decade Can Hold

It is ten years to the week that I started my experience as a student teacher. When I was in high school and undergrad, I was convinced that teaching was my path - I wanted to be a teacher. Specifically, I wanted to be a teacher of English. I wanted to teach kids how to love literature and how to see themselves in books.

It didn't work out.

I found out that teaching is a lot more than just putting out what you want to see in the world. I found out that teaching wasn't for me. It wasn't for me because there are so many barriers to student success with literature (all the structural regulars like racism, misogyny, homophobia, etc.), but it also wasn't for me because I was deeply, deeply depressed.

When I look back at that time in my life, I get angry about all we don't get taught about the inequity of the school system and how it operates as an arm of the state. I work with disabled students now, and all those truths are the same, but I feel like I can make more of a difference with what I do now. I like my job.

But I also look back at my writing then, and compare it to now. I've always been a feast or famine writer, both with fan works and my own original work. I sometimes go for years without much meaningful writing. Back then, I was writing a lot, like now. But back then, I was writing a lot about sorrow. About ghosting. About the person whom I loved that didn't love me back and thought the answer was walking away, killing my version of them for me. I grieved. I was aggrieved. And my writing was acrid. I felt hollow a lot, and I felt like that person was the reason. That got in the way of my teaching.

But now? I write about all manner of things. I write about lots of emotions and people, and not one of them is that person. I am stunned that I am in this place. I am so grateful for the me that went through all those things. I'm thankful that she felt all those feelings, because they got me here. And I am truly, truly, shocked that that person is nowhere in sight. I lived. I survived them. Which makes me kinda sad because I wanted them around forever, even though I don't anymore. Because none of that agony is worth the life I have built now.

I got my puppy! I got my first apartment! I moved in with my (now) wife! I got married! I got my other puppy! I might be a parent in the near future! I am living a full, meaningful life. Without teaching and without them.

Forgive my sappy introspection, but I think it's cool that I can release these thoughts into the internet, and maybe they could resonate with someone I've never met, you know? I'm happy where I am right now, but I pay homage to where I come from.

#a whole literal ten years #that's wild #I have lived so much life #I have lived so much life without that dumb hot bitch 🙄 #joke's on me though because wife is way hotter #personal

[ukbeautys-blog]

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[pointofreturn]

professor's pet, pt. 1

I was always a model student. Always the teacher’s pet.

Intelligence was my earliest form of worthiness. People told me over and over how smart and well-spoken I was. In second grade, I was placed in a third-grade reading class. Gifted for fourth grade. I read books instead of playing with the other kids and spent middle school lunches with my nose between Edgar Allan Poe poems or Faulkner short stories. I aced every advanced English class, received praise for even the shittiest papers, and received perfect scores on state writing tests. I completed both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English with a focus on American Literature. I was accepted and offered full funding to two prestigious Ph.D. programs at famous southern schools. And I would have finished my doctorate if not for this dreaded tale I’m about to tell you.

Naturally, as a reader, I am also a writer. Mother saved all of the stories I wrote through grade school. I won an award in fourth grade for a story about a purple hairbrush. I wrote and illustrated a children’s book about squirrels with family conflict. All of the creative stories have one thing in common—they are infused with bits and pieces of my life.

I’ve always been one to speak from experience.

Writing was always something I enjoyed and I was objectively good at it, but my internal doubt ruined my ability to properly see my potential.

*

His name surrounds me months before I ever see him. He’s one of the more popular professors, and I’d come to learn that was for good reason. I started taking classes at Another University because I was determined to finally finish my bachelor’s. I started talking to people about the research I was interested in, what I liked to read and write.

“You have to meet him,” they say.

“You two will really get along. You’re so similar!”

“Have you talked to ______? He might be interested in picking your brain.”

I’m accepted to the honors program where I’m tasked with writing my first thesis. I settle on a comparative study on F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald’s tandem novels, This Side of Paradise and Save Me the Waltz, arguing that Scott’s patriarchal plagiarism and creative control directly contributed to Zelda’s mental and physical disabilities. It wasn’t profound, but Zelda’s novel is my favorite book ever, so I had to write about it. All my professors and peers tell me I should get his input on my work.

How I sometimes wish we hadn’t been pushed to cross paths.

How I sometimes wish I’d never met him.

*

After I decided to save myself, I finished inpatient treatment and figured the best way forward was to go back to college. I’d gathered a handful of credits from the two schools I’d been to previously and even though my heart was originally called by a music or art major, my head determined that I should be practical. English, I thought, was a path that could lead me to an attainable career in teaching or editing but would still allow me to engage with my creativity.

And given that it was my best subject, it made sense.

Several of my English professors had a profound impact on my life. My first creative writing teacher was at the local community college I said I’d never go to but have my associate’s degree from. He was in his early forties and kind of looked like Jason Bateman if you squinted the right way. His class was nonfiction-focused, so we spent a lot of time writing about ourselves. Easy enough. During our final meeting, he told me I should keep writing about my life. I’d had other people tell me to write a book, but he was the first to suggest writing a memoir, the first to suggest that my chaotic life was worth talking about.

I had an English professor in Tampa who assigned the book that taught me the truth about chattel slavery and the Native American genocide. He looked like a mix of Albert Einstein and Eugene Levy, always smelled like stale cigarettes and coffee, and was a notoriously hard grader. He was the first to give me a C on a paper, but he let me revise it and pushed me to be a better academic writer. Later, he awarded me a coveted A- on a paper about southern high schools teaching intentional misinformation on the Civil War and slavery. His only criticism was that I was too emotional, that I brought too much of myself into the subject.

After another health incident, I had to move back home, once again, but I was impatient to finally finish my bachelor’s degree. It had been nearly five years since I graduated high school and I was starting to feel behind in more ways than one. I transferred to Another University.

I grew up going to classes with Mother at AU. Another school I swore I would never go to and now have two degrees from. I distinctly remember a class she brought me to when I was four or five years old. We did a taste test—bitter, salty, sweet, sour. Each flavor was on a toothpick and we had to place the wood on a different section of our tongue to see where we got the strongest reaction. I have no idea what it was supposed to prove. But I loved the classroom, I loved watching the professor, I loved the feeling of belonging with the other students.

Another University birthed and destroyed my academic life.

*

I sit in an office with Josephine, my honors seminar professor. She is youthful and beautiful, blonde with a full, bright smile and spring-water eyes. Josephine will come to be one of my favorites over the years, one who sticks with me through my master’s thesis.

We’re waiting for her to introduce me to him.

“I think your project has a lot of potential,” she affirms. “I’m really excited to hear what he has to say. You have aligned research interests and I’m sure he’ll have some source recommendations for you to take this further.”

I smile and nod. I’m always nervous about meeting new people, but he responded politely enough to my email asking for a meeting. I was just getting in my head.

Josephine shuffles some papers around on her desk to break up the awkwardness. A figure passes outside her door.

“Oh! Dr. ______!”

I turn around to catch a glimpse of feathery blonde hair and the tail of a tweed coat. His body backtracks a few steps and stands in the doorway.

The world goes quiet.

Who are you? Did I know you from somewhere before?

I now completely understand his popularity. His looks alone are enough to tempt any of the academically needy English girls. Who wouldn’t want to sit alone in his office, listening intently to anything and everything he has to say about what you’ve written, all while secretly hoping for a hint that he’s interested in more than just your paper. His charming personality and hospitable mannerisms were just the cherry on top of a seemingly perfect package.

Josephine speaks again, beaming between the two of us stopped in time. “This is Mollie Steven, the undergraduate honors student you’re meeting with this afternoon.”

He opens his mouth and honey whiskey comes out.

“Mollie.”

He says my name and I don’t know if I’ll hear anything in the world ever again.

He leads me to his office and we sit down to have a conversation about my thesis. I can’t remember a single detail of the conversation but I will always remember the way he looked at me. I’ll always remember the way he shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair, obviously nervous. Despite the gossip I hear about his effortless confidence and charm, able to flirt with a light pole and all that, he stutters over his words and lets me lead the conversation. I think he asks a few questions about my personal life—where I’m from and went to school, normal things like that.

I knew immediately that there was a mutual attraction between us. And what was worse, some kind of instant, magnetic connection. Sticking your finger in a light socket and all that. I was still dating Seb, but this was the first man I’d felt something for in years. He felt something for me too, however fleeting or insignificant.

Our “story” spans over six years. It doesn’t have a happy ending, but why would I have ever expected it to?

#creative nonfiction #creative writing #memoir #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #academia #graduate school

[casspurrjoybell-29]

Forgotten Ties - Chapter 5 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Skye discreetly tore a corner off of one of the pieces of paper and put it in his mouth.

Both the taste and texture were not very good.

He tried chewing it but that didn't make it any better.

Skye kicked his legs under the desk.

He'd run out of things to do.

"I'm done."

The lady glanced up.

"It's been two minutes."

"I am very good at doing tests."

The lady walked over and looked down at his paper.

"All you've done is scribble on this. Is this a joke?"

Skye folded his arms over his chest.

"I did my best."

"Skye... do you know how to read?"

"Do you?"

"Yes, obviously."

"And yet you can't read what I wrote on the paper. Interesting."

She sighed.

"So you can't read. Why did they even send you to school? We're teachers, not babysitters."

"Hypothetically, someone who can't read would have a lot that they need to learn. A teaching feast for teachers, some might say."

The lady looked unimpressed.

"A waste of time, others might say. You're almost an adult. You can't possibly catch up enough for it to make any real difference. No matter what we do, you're going to live your life as a burden on society."

"Oh, that's an option?" Skye asked. "That sounds good. I'll just do that."

"You're not supposed to want to be a burden."

"Why not? You said that was what I was going to be no matter what. Do you want me to just be sad even though I can't actually even do anything about it? That's mean. You're mean."

"You may not be smart but you have a smart mouth."

She rolled his papers up in her hand and bopped them against the desk.

"Stay here. Don't move. Don't do anything. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Skye waited until she'd left the room, tapped his fingertips against the desk a few times and then ducked under the desk to dig into his bag for his lunchbox.

Marigold had made him tuna sandwiches.

He loved tuna but he never got any when he stayed home because he still hadn't figured out how to work the can opener.

Maybe going to school wasn't so bad if there were tuna sandwiches.

He was onto his second one by the time the lady returned.

"What did I say?" she demanded as Skye peeked his head up from under the desk.

"To sit there and do nothing."

"Then why are you eating?"

"Because I wanted to and you weren't looking."

"I'd give you detention but I don't want you to be my problem for one second more than you need to be and I'm sure someone else will give you one before the end of the day regardless. Put your lunchbox away and follow me."

She was watching now, so Skye obeyed.

She led him down the hall to another room full of chairs and small desks, only this one also had a bunch of teenagers in it.

The lady took him by the shoulder and led him over to one of the two adult women in the room.

"This is Skye. He's very annoying and he can't read. Skye, this is your teacher."

"Nobody can prove that I can't read," Skye said.

"Why don't you go and sit down while we talk, Skye?" the teacher suggested.

"Can I eat my lunch?"

"No," the original lady all but shouted at him.

Skye went and sat down and he did not eat his lunch even though he was hungry.

Skye felt something touch his head and turned to find the boy who was sitting in the seat next to him reaching out.

He had an intense, unwavering gaze.

"Hello," Skye said. "I also like to touch people's hair without asking sometimes."

The boy smiled.

It was a strange, toothy smile but Skye found himself smiling back.

"Nnh," the boy said and flapped his hands, his smile broadening.

Skye laughed.

"I like you. You're funny."

The boy put his hand on Skye's face and stroked his fingers over Skye's jaw.

It wasn't the best place to be pet but Skye didn't mind.

"Ethan, no touching," the teacher called out across the room as the original lady left.

The boy pulled his hands away and poutily crossed them over his chest.

"They have a lot of rules, don't they?" Skye asked. "They keep not letting me eat my lunch. It's my lunch."

Ethan unfolded his arms and slapped his hands against the desk.

The teacher walked over and stuck a big, white sticker on the top of the desk Skye was sitting at.

She poised a marker over it, ready to write.

"It's Skye, isn't it? How do you spell that?"

"With an 'e,'" Skye said, not because he knew how to spell his name but because he remembered the doctor asking if it was spelled with or without an 'e,' so maybe that was something.

It did seem to be because she nodded and wrote something down on the sticker.

"Ethan, why don't you get a puzzle and you and Skye can do it together?" the teacher suggested.

Ethan made a happy sound, flapped his arms and ran off to do something.

Get a puzzle, maybe. Probably.

Yes, it turned out because he came back with a puzzle.

Skye couldn't remember ever having done a puzzle before but it turned out it wasn't very hard.

Perhaps the writing test had been misleading in its difficulty and school was, in fact, pretty easy.

Besides not being able to eat when he wanted to, school didn't seem too bad, though it would have been better if there were no teachers.

Ethan liked to touch Skye's face and his hair and his hands but every time he did it, one of the teachers would tell him off.

Ethan made funny sounds and sometimes they made Skye laugh but whenever Skye did that the teachers would snap at him even though Ethan was laughing too.

Skye was relieved when the bell finally rang and he was told he could go to the cafeteria to eat his lunch.

He wiped the chalk he'd been trying to eat off of his tongue with his shirt and let Ethan lead the way.

[xtruss]

Oxford University’s Other Diversity Crisis! Good Luck Trying To Become A Professor If You Don’t Have Family Money

— By Emma Irving | March 1st, 2023 | Illustrations: Ewelina Karpowiak | 1843 Magazine

On a rainy summer’s day, I met Henry at a cosy pub on the outskirts of Oxford. A cheerful man in his 40s, with cherubic curls and a mischievous grin, he was wearing shorts in defiance of the British weather. As we waited to be seated, he eyed up a chicken-and-bacon club sandwich on a neighbouring table and joked, “I need a bit of fattening up, don’t you think?”

Once the waiter took our orders, Henry’s jovial demeanour faded. He nervously scanned the faces of the other diners, in case one belonged to a former colleague from the well-known university nearby. He didn’t want anyone to overhear what he was about to tell me about his past life in academia.

Henry was born into a poor farming family in rural south-west England. He was a bright and curious child and, at the age of 11, he won a bursary to a private boys’ school. Though dedicated to his studies, he continued to help out with farm chores. His mother would often wake him in the middle of the night to assist with a cow in labour. “I’d be there, half asleep, pulling on a rope tied to the calf’s leg,” before going to school the next day, he told me.

Even though no one in Henry’s family had gone to university before, his teacher encouraged him to apply to Oxford. Opening the acceptance letter was a “life-changing” moment, he said, “full of enjoyment and anticipation and excitement for the future”. He had sometimes felt like an outsider growing up: his academic ambition distinguished him from his family, and his background set him apart from his school friends. But at Oxford he never doubted that he belonged. He was popular with both peers and tutors, and received one of the few yearly academic scholarships available to undergraduates.

Henry thought about becoming a lawyer after university: the fact that law firms provided funding for the conversion course made this a viable path for someone who had no family wealth to rely on. But he also applied to a highly competitive masters programme at Oxford. When he was offered a place, one of his tutors urged him to accept, assuring him that he would have a successful career in academia. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say he twisted my arm,” Henry said. “But he certainly made it clear that he thought it would be a big shame for me not to go on and do that.”

Henry had sometimes felt like an outsider growing up: his academic ambition distinguished him from his family, and his background set him apart from his school friends

So Henry stayed at Oxford, completing a two-year masters degree before embarking on a phd (which the university calls a dphil). He received a grant for his postgraduate studies from the Arts and Humanities Research Council (ahrc), a funding body, but there was a cap of four years total funding per student. It normally takes five years to complete both a masters and dphil in Henry’s subject, meaning students had to self-fund for a year. (ahrc funding is now restricted to phds.)

Henry qualified for some hardship funding, but he realised that the rest of his tuition would have to be paid for through a combination of short-term, badly paid teaching roles and non-academic work. For the first year of his dphil, he moved back in with his parents to save money on rent, commuting two-and-a-half hours to Oxford twice a week; he also worked at a company near his home two days a week. In his third year, he returned to Oxford, and held down three part-time jobs – all while completing a course of study that the university officially characterises as a “full-time occupation”.

Henry was nearly 30 when he finished his thesis. (He had extended his dphil by a year to give him more time to fund his degree.) Although he still wanted to be an academic, he couldn’t help but compare himself with friends who had gone into other fields. In many other professions, nine years of training would easily lead to lucrative opportunities. But many of the roles open to postgraduates like Henry were fixed-term contract (or “casual”) positions – teaching-heavy jobs that often last just nine months to a year. These jobs are often poorly compensated and typically lack employment rights such as sick pay. Even so, competition for them is intense, so Henry felt lucky to secure a year-long lectureship at one of the 44 colleges that make up Oxford.

One might expect that a university as rich as Oxford – which has an estimated total endowment of £6.4bn, if colleges are included – would be able to fund many well-paid academic positions, and would be especially keen to employ its high-achieving graduates. But Henry’s role only paid a stipend of around £14,500. (A stipend is a fixed amount of money that is provided for training to offset specific expenses. It is not legally considered compensation for work performed.) That amount is not unusual for a stipendiary lectureship at Oxford, even today. At the time of writing, an advertised job at a college was offering a stipend of between £13,700 and £15,500 a year.

This is a shockingly low figure for people who have spent nearly a decade becoming experts in their fields. (In contrast, a newly qualified solicitor at one of Britain’s biggest law firms, who will have trained for five or six years, can expect to earn on average just over £72,000 annually.) The university itself estimates that the living costs of a single undergraduate or postgraduate with no dependents are between £14,600 and £21,100 a year in 2023. These stipends also fall far below the median annual salary in Britain, which was £33,000 in 2022. “They treat us like we are very low pond life,” said one academic, who held fixed-term contracts with the university and various colleges for 15 years. “They market [courses] on the basis of our reputations…and yet they won’t even give us a business card saying we teach at the university.” (Oxford declined to respond to this allegation and a number of other specific ones in this piece.)

Walk the streets of Oxford, and you will be plunged back into the Middle Ages. The university’s three oldest colleges (Balliol, Merton, and University) were founded in the mid-1200s, and many of the others were built by the mid-1500s. Visitors are charmed by the whirr and hum of intellectual life and the sandstone buildings that shift in colour from cream to burnished gold as the sun sets. But this seductive warren – bristling with spires and pinnacles, abounding with quadrangles and gardens glimpsed through gates – can also feel intimidating to outsiders.

As one might expect of an institution that has accreted over hundreds of years, the University of Oxford has a structure as labyrinthine as its surroundings. The central university funds and administers departments and faculties, where lectures and laboratory facilities are provided. The self-governing colleges admit students and deliver the intensive tutorials, often one-on-one, that make the Oxford experience distinctive. Academics with permanent positions usually have both a position in their faculty, such as a professorship, and a fellowship in one of the colleges.

The university has been a political and financial springboard for nearly a thousand years. Graduates from the university – and from Cambridge, its rival – fill the highest echelons of the law, media and politics in Britain and around the world. Of Britain’s 57 prime ministers, 30 graduated from Oxford.

Of the permanent academics who declared their ethnicity, 8.5% identify as coming from an ethnic minority; the average for British universities is 20%. Only 11 of the 1,952 permanent academic staff at Oxford are black

Over the past three decades, the university’s elite reputation has made it a target for grievances about Britain’s lack of social mobility. Both Oxford and Cambridge came under pressure to stop favouring private-school applicants, who tend to come from rich families, and to admit more state-school students from a range of backgrounds. Now Oxford spends around £13m a year on “access” initiatives, including outreach to state schools. The university also offers financial help to poorer students: today one in four British undergraduates at Oxford receives an annual bursary.

Measures like these have begun to make the student body more diverse. In 2021, more than two-thirds of undergraduates admitted to Oxford went to state-school – one of the highest ratios since the university began recording detailed admissions statistics in 2007. (Although, as less than a fifth of sixth-form students in the country are privately educated, they are still disproportionately represented at Oxford.) Gender and racial diversity also improved: in 2021, 55% of the British students admitted to Oxford were women, and the percentage of places offered to ethnic-minority students rose to 25%.

The picture is very different for those hoping to forge an academic career at Oxford. Around 80% of full professors are male; the average for British universities is 72%. Of the permanent academics who declared their ethnicity, 8.5% identify as coming from an ethnic minority; the average for British universities is 20%. Only 11 of the 1,952 permanent academic staff at Oxford are black.

These skewed statistics owe much to the rise of the gig economy in academia – and to Oxford’s particularly strong reliance on insecure contracts. According to data from the Higher Education Statistics Agency (hesa) for the 2019-20 academic year, around one-third of all academic staff in Britain are employed on insecure fixed-term contracts. That figure jumps to two-thirds at Oxford, despite its resources. Cambridge, which shares many of Oxford’s institutional quirks, such as independent colleges, employs significantly less of its academic staff – two-fifths – on fixed-term contracts.

The actual rate of casual work across the university is likely to be even higher than these figures suggest because they only reflect contracts between staff and the central university; individual colleges decide their own employment contracts and are not obliged to collect data about them, despite the fact that most teaching roles are college-based. When approached for comment by 1843 magazine, an Oxford spokesperson acknowledged that “a significant number of our researchers are on fixed-term contracts, which is a consequence of the funding model for much of UK research and an issue right across the higher-education sector.”

Notably, Oxford does not publish data on the socio-economic backgrounds of its permanent academics. But I found, in nearly 30 interviews with fixed-term, permanent and former academics, that those who were not from affluent families found it difficult to withstand the precarity imposed by the academic gig-economy. These pressures seemed to be particularly acute for women and people from ethnic-minority backgrounds.

Casualisation, as this proliferation of insecure contracts has become known, works as a filter favouring the “gentleman academic” – someone who is rich enough to navigate the instability, poor pay and opaque hiring processes for permanent roles. “This is what it used to be in the 18th and 19th century where if you had money then you could have a sort of leisure job,” one academic who grew up in the care system told me. Although she continues to teach at Oxford, she is prioritising a secondary career in order to make ends meet.

When Henry began his teaching at Oxford, he hoped it would help him secure a permanent job. According to his recollection, no one employed by the university had ever outlined how unlikely this outcome was. He remembers being told on just one occasion – six years into his academic career – that permanent roles were scarce.

Over the next seven years, Henry hopped from one fixed-term contract to the next. (British law dictates that successive fixed-term contracts can last a maximum of four years in total before a person is, in most cases, presumed by law to be a permanent employee. But because each of the colleges at Oxford is considered a separate employer, academics can be caught in limbo for years.) As soon as he finished one contract, he would start searching for his next, a time-consuming process. Some of his contracts lasted only the academic year, which meant the summers – when most academics are meant to do their research – went unpaid, as did the months-long periods between contracts.

Henry was comparatively lucky: other academics he knew held ad-hoc teaching positions, which were paid by the hour. Even so, he shuttled from one house-share to the next, often unsure how he would pay the rent. His friends stopped inviting him out, because they knew he could not afford to join them. Another academic in a similar situation told me that she never put the heating on and shopped as frugally as possible; even so, she still only had about £7 a day to live on, once rent had been taken care of.

One academic I spoke to was informed, at the end of a lunch with her teaching supervisor, that her hours – and therefore her salary – were being halved with four weeks’ notice

It is not uncommon for fixed-term contract workers to struggle to make ends meet. Many are on contracts that mean they are only paid for the hours they spend teaching: they receive no pay for preparation, administration or pastoral care. This may prevent them from cobbling together several supposedly part-time fixed-term contracts, as, in reality, even one such contract may end up taking as many hours as a full-time role. A number of academics told me that they would often spend at least three or four hours preparing for an hour-long tutorial, for which they would then be paid £25 – pushing the cost of their labour far below the minimum wage (which, as of 2023, is £10.42 an hour for those aged over 23).

Short-term contracts can be altered or cancelled without much notice, which also takes a mental toll. One academic I spoke to was informed, at the end of a lunch with her teaching supervisor, that her hours – and therefore her salary – were being halved with four weeks’ notice. “It was just kind of a haphazard comment,” she said. She never received any formal notice.

Casual contracts offer a chance for academics to develop a professional relationship with the university but, paradoxically, their demands on academics’ time make it very difficult to secure a permanent position. Since teaching obligations and part-time work consumed his days and nights, Henry found it near-impossible to immerse himself in his own work. But, as he discovered when applying for jobs, institutions place the most value on research – even for fixed-term positions with no research element. The prospect of a permanent job seemed to recede ever further into the distance. “I know of no other industry where this absurd situation could possibly exist,” he told me. “A situation where doing your actual job well” – teaching – “is detrimental to your career prospects.”

This emphasis on research is a legacy of government policy going back nearly 40 years. In 1985, the Conservative government, which wanted universities to think of themselves more like businesses, decided to give more money to those institutions that prioritised research. For some universities, this created a virtuous cycle. Their excellence in research pushed them up the university league tables, meaning they got more money from external sources, such as government agencies, non-profit organisations and corporations. Oxford’s total research income is consistently the highest of any British university. In the 2020-21 academic year, the university received more than £800m in research funding; this year, the university again came top in the Times Higher Education World University Rankings – a spot it has held since 2017.

In order to hoover up money, universities have become more inclined to hire people with a track record of published research. But it has become increasingly hard to carve out time in the library without private means of support. As the tutor who grew up in care put it, academia is now “a lifestyle choice, not a career”.

Henry discussed his plight with a colleague who had moved back in with his parents for five years after completing his dphil. He was able to dedicate himself entirely to research, which led to an offer for a permanent job at Oxford. The colleague advised Henry to cut down on the amount of time he dedicated to teaching. Henry tried to explain that it was impossible for him to do so. “If you went to your parents and said ‘Hey, listen, I’m just gonna live at home for five years and I want you to support me so I can get my dream job,’ I think most people’s parents would give you a good shake,” Henry said, his exasperation palpable. “But that’s why it is far easier to get a permanent academic job if you are rich than if you are poor.”

British Universities are enrolling more postgraduates than ever. At Oxford, between 2006 and 2021, the number of postgraduate students at the university almost doubled. These kinds of students are particularly lucrative for universities, as both domestic and international students usually have to pay hefty fees. Moreover, they often help to teach the growing number of undergraduates – most of whom pay the £9,250 annual cap on fees set by the national government in 2015. (From the 2015-16 academic year onwards, the cap on student numbers was removed, meaning that universities were allowed to recruit as many as they liked.) Postgraduates, even after receiving their doctorates, continue to benefit universities: early-career academics are an enthusiastic, inexpensive and expendable form of labour, willing to do anything to secure a rare permanent job.

At Oxford – an extremely desirable place to study and work – this dynamic is particularly pronounced. “It [has] prestige,” one academic put it bluntly. The academic who grew up in care explained that “what happens is the kids who come from [working-class] backgrounds are the most enamoured by the status,” said one academic. “They are the ones who want to stay on and do masters and phds, but they do not have the solid middle-class background that will allow them a cushion.”

Henry was already working over 50 hours a week. Now he began to spend an extra 20 hours a week on research

And, as Henry discovered, they have only a slender chance of carving out a viable career there. The turnover rate of permanent academics at British universities is low, meaning that the number of jobs available at any one time for the expanding glut of phd students is very small. At Oxford, associate professors, who constitute the main academic grade, are initially appointed for a period of five years, after which a review takes place; if they pass, they have a job until retirement. At the time of writing, only five associate professorships were being advertised on Oxford’s cross-college jobs board.

Oxford’s institutional structure may impede efforts to diversify the backgrounds of its hires. Unlike other universities, hiring at Oxford is not organised centrally; instead, a small committee is appointed, usually constituting academics associated with the relevant college and department. Such committees may themselves lack diversity. “They have almost total autonomy over what they choose to do,” an associate professor told me. “Then there’s very little information sharing that happens from one committee to the next.” One academic I spoke to suggested there was a “culture of favouritism”, with some academics potentially benefiting from their connection to permanent academics – for example, a phd supervisor who is particularly influential.

There is also no requirement for individual colleges to collect demographic data on their staff. According to Simukai Chigudu, an associate professor of African politics at the Department of International Development and a Fellow of St Antony’s College, this has implications for diversity of all kinds. “There isn’t a central mechanism to say we’re going to do a number of strategic hires in certain disciplines or with a certain profile,” he told me. Like most Oxford professors, Chigudu began his career on a fixed-term contract. He reckons he only managed to obtain a permanent job because his predecessor, one of the few black professors in Oxford, died, resulting in a vacancy in his department. The lack of transparency at Oxford, he believes, means that there is insufficient reflection about the demographic make-up of its academics: “We just keep reproducing ourselves,” he said.

Diversity among the academic body at Oxford is not helped by the fact that ethnic minorities and women are disproportionately represented (compared with white men) on the very fixed-term contracts that make it difficult to obtain permanent jobs. One young woman academic – an immigrant from an ethnic-minority family – said that “there’s often this assumption that if you’re in Oxford or Cambridge, you must come from a very privileged background.” Yet ethnic-minority academics are more likely to come from poorer backgrounds than their white counterparts: according to a 2020 report by the Social Metrics Commission, just under half of ethnic-minority families in the UK are poor, compared with one-fifth of white families. The academic had come to feel that, given the odds against her, she should be grateful for securing even a fixed-term contract.

Meanwhile many women academics seeking to have children are unlikely to receive maternity leave if on a fixed-term contract. One academic found out she was pregnant while on her third consecutive one-year contract with the same Oxford college; she had held a total of 13 different contracts over the previous five years. “It was very weird going on maternity leave knowing that that was the end of my job,” she told me. “It’s truly my dream job. And it was a completely irrational thing, but for a while I resented the baby because it felt like I had been forced to give up a job I love.”

These unsustainable emotional and financial dynamics lead many women and people from ethnic-minority or poor backgrounds to quit academia altogether. “I’ve compared it before to being in a slightly abusive relationship,” one woman, who left academia under the strain of becoming a mother, told me. “There’s always that little thread of hope that you’ll get there in the end, which keeps you hanging on and putting up with the poor conditions.”

By 2014, half of Henry’s undergraduates were achieving firsts, the top mark, in their finals – an impressive success rate. But he still hadn’t published much research. He sought to explain his situation to the professors at his college and receive reassurance that he was on track for a permanent position. Instead they “casually dismissed” his worries about money, he said. “Of course, no universities say they do not want to hire poor people. But it was clear that it was socially taboo to even mention [his financial situation],” he claimed.

Henry felt there were few options open to him outside of academia. phds are often so specialised that many academics – particularly those in the humanities – can’t imagine what else they might do. He also feared that he would be considered a failure for giving up after coming so far. “One of the difficulties in leaving is that there’s almost a shame attached to [it],” another academic, who is now a teacher, told me. “There is a kind of mythology in meritocracy which is if you try hard enough, if you’re good enough, you will get there in the end…And of course the implication if you do leave is you weren’t good enough…rather than just saying there’s just not enough jobs.”

Two academics who were on fixed-term contracts at Oxford for 15 years – until their contracts were not renewed in 2022 – are now suing the university

He arranged a meeting with the college’s recently appointed “equality and diversity representative”, whom he hoped would be receptive to his concerns. Yet the representative rebuffed him, he said. He remembers the representative suggesting that he simply had to put in more hours and that the current selection criteria for permanent academic roles were fine. If Henry hadn’t published research by now, the representative said, then there was something wrong. “By that, I understood he meant: something wrong with you,” Henry recalled. “There was a sense of disgust at my saying…I needed to work for money.”

Already working over 50 hours a week, Henry now began to spend an extra 20 hours a week on research. He would read academic articles during meals and in bed. He cut himself off from friends and family. His partner Laura became concerned – Henry had loved going to the theatre, the cinema and dance classes with her (they had met while ballroom dancing). But he was no longer his gregarious self; instead, he was barely present.

Henry eventually came to what he described as a “completely overwhelming” realisation: that he had been “seriously exploited, seriously deceived” by the university. After years of hard work, “I had nothing. I had no savings. I was entirely burned out, and I had no career prospects. I realised I was at a dead end and would likely remain in the depths of poverty for the rest of my life.”

For Many Years, Oxford’s culture of individualism, fractured collegiate structure and revolving door of fixed-term employees have largely prevented academics from taking collective action. Yet the university’s gig workers, along with those from other institutions, have managed to make some gains in recent years. Last November, the University and College Union (ucu) organised the biggest strike in the history of British higher education: over 70,000 lecturers, librarians and researchers across 150 universities, including Oxford, took part in three days of strikes. (In January, the Universities and Colleges Employers Association made a revised pay offer to the ucu, which found the new terms inadequate; they announced 18 further days of strike action in February and March. On February 17th the ucu announced a two week pause in the strikes to facilitate further negotiations, which are ongoing.)

Legal precedent, too, is changing. In October 2021, lecturers on independent-contractor contracts won a case against Goldsmiths University in London. Now, they are granted the same employment rights as full-time workers, such as the minimum wage, paid holiday, and protection against unlawful discrimination and salary deductions. Inspired by that case, two academics who were on fixed-term contracts at Oxford for 15 years – until their contracts were not renewed in 2022 – are suing the university.

An Oxford spokesperson told 1843 magazine that “the university acknowledges the pressures of working on fixed-term contracts and that these can bear disproportionately on women and ethnic minority groups.” It has introduced some measures that it claims will improve conditions for early-career academics and institutional diversity. In September it appointed its first chief diversity officer, and fixed-term researchers can now apply for internal funds to cover research costs. According to the spokesperson, Oxford exceeded its 2020 target to ensure that women comprise at least a third of the members of important decision-making bodies, and has “announced an independent review of pay and working conditions for all staff at the university.”

“My career will never get back onto the same track as if I’d left university at the same time as my friends did”

Questions remain over how effective these measures will be. And for some scholars, like Henry, the changes are coming too late. He left academia at the end of 2015, after a breakdown. “I was very close to being suicidal and it was only through Laura’s support and the National Health Service that I managed to hold things together and get through,” he said. (He completed six weeks of talking therapy.)

He is now married to Laura and works in an administrative role in a town outside Oxford. “My career will never get back onto the same track as if I’d left university at the same time as my friends did,” he said. “But in some ways I think I was very lucky. I was the very last generation who didn’t pay university fees. I was in a pretty bad way when I decided to leave academia. But if I had £50,000 of undergraduate debt and £25,000 of postgraduate debt, I would have…” He looked down at his plate. “Let’s just say, I don’t like to think about what I would have done.”

Henry and I left the pub. The rain had stopped, and the sun had come out. To the south Oxford stood, proud and beautiful. The city looked from another time, or another world. Henry caught my eye and smiled. He turned his back on the place and slowly walked away. ■

Some names have been changed

— Emma Irving is Newsletters Editor at The Economist

[urmom-101s-posts]

Chapter 2:

That night I decided to text him:

“hello Mr. Davis, this is y/n y/l/n. I’m not sure if now is a less busy time, if not that is perfectly fine and you can get back with me whenever. I just usually fall behind in math, so this year I want to stay on top of the work and keep my grade up.”

I wasn’t expecting a response till the morning, so I set my phone down and took a shower. When I got out, I saw the notification.

“hello y/n, I am available after school on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s. I can tutor you on both days or just one. It’s up to you. At the moment no other student has asked for help this soon, so you will be the first to pick your schedule. Have a good evening, and I will see you in the morning.”

I stared at my phone grinning.

“Would it be alright if we started tomorrow? I need to catch up if i’m going to start the year where everyone else is.” I texted back.

He didn’t answer for a couple minutes so I assumed he had went to bed. So i did the same, or tried to at least. I laid awake in my bed fighting for sleep. Sleep was always hard for me, I was diagnosed with insomnia a few years back, so I was hoping that tonight was not one of those nights.

I started watching a show on my phone to try to get sleepy. When the notification came across my screen.

“Yes of course. I’ll be there around 7:30, is that alright for you?”

“Yes, Thank you Mr. Davis!”

Instantly I got the read receipt and the typing bubble. I waited until the message was sent.

“Don’t thank me yet, tutoring hasn’t began yet. I can’t guarantee you’ll be thanking me then.”

I crossed my legs under my comforter after reading it. I hate to admit what the man can do to me, but I melt at the thought of him.

I felt myself getting wet from my thoughts and I didn’t have to shake them this time. I was alone.

I slid my hands down my body and into my shorts. I began rubbing little circles on top of my lingerie, not giving full access yet . With each passing thought of Mr. Davis my pace quickened. I couldn’t get him off my mind. My mind was running rampant thinking of his hands caressing every inch of my body, and his soft lips kissing down my neck down to my thighs. He just looked like a man that knew how to please a woman. My mind created a picture of his head in between my thighs pulling me at my waist inching me closer to him, he seemed like a man that did it for his pleasure not just to “even the score”. He was a man, not a high school boy, he was mature. As the time passed I had slid my hand underneath the lace without noticing. The fast but gentle circles began to harshen and right as i’m right on the brink of my orgasm my phone dings.

“Can we change that morning session to an afternoon? I have to take my kids to school tomorrow morning so I’ll be getting there later than I expected.”

“Kids?!? Now i’m as far from the edge as possible. Oh my, does that mean he has a wife too?” The more I thought of it I grew jealous.

“No! No! y/n, he’s your teacher. you’re actually insane.” I thought while trying to bring myself down from a psychotic episode.

After calming down and taking a deep breath I replied.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Davis, but I can’t tomorrow afternoon I have to watch my brother until my mom gets off work.”

I didn’t want to decline. I was half tempted to teach Kyrie to be a latch key kid, but i kept my cool and acted like a civilized human. I start yawning and I know if I don’t go to sleep at this moment I won’t sleep at all tonight. Sometimes I fight sleeping without even noticing. I took my opportunity and rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly.