With Trump’s rise to power, thousands of Haitians seeking entry to the US are now left stranded at the northern Mexico border. But black migration is not new to Mexico, as people from the African Diaspora have lived here for centuries. In this short documentary, we meet Haitians stuck at the border as well as Africans in Mexico City to explore black migration and identity in Mexico.
↳ Day 11. BACKSTORY: Corazon & Law”Walk Law, unnoticed quietly, far…far away. Nothing will bind you anymore, not the iron borders of the White City…not your shortened life span. Nothing will restrict you anymore, you’re now: truly free
A/N: I know I’ve written a similar concept before, but I got my wisdom teeth out two days ago, and in a drug induced state, I wrote this. Thankfully, my friend Fem re-read it and fixed everything that definitely needed fixing (whoops.) I really hope you guys like this, and I’m begging you, please send in any comments and critiques! Let me know if you want a part two!
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Dean pulled the blanket up over your shoulder, letting it rest just below your chin. You had fallen asleep not twenty minutes into the movie. First your head fell onto his shoulder, then slid down to his arm, then eventually met his thighs.
Gently, he ran his fingers through your hair. Dean knew that you weren’t aware of the full extent of his affections, and that you would probably never would find out. But, he also knew that it did not matter to him whether or not you did. All he ever wanted was to keep you close by and safe.
“I’m gonna head to bed.” Sam said quietly, stretching as he stood up from the chair.
Dean nodded, “I’ll take Y/N to her room.”
Carefully, he lifted up your sleeping figure and clutched you to his chest as he made his way through the dimly lit hallway, and to your bedroom door.
“Night.” He said, as if you could hear, and placed you under your covers.
His socked feet slid against the floor as he walked to his own room, head in hand. Dean rubbed his eyes before changing into a new t-shirt and boxers.
It couldn’t have been more than two hours when he heard a faint cry through the wall separating your bedrooms. In seconds, he was by your side. Dean watched your face contort from sadness to anguish, then eventually fear.
“Y/N.” He whispered your name, “Hey, hey, wake up.” He pleaded, hands gripping at your shoulders.
“I’m right here.” He shook you gently, praying you would open your eyes quickly.
You woke up finally, reaching up and gripping Dean’s t-shirt. He exhaled with relief as he watched your features relax.
“Sorry.” You whispered, laying back down against your pillow. “I’m-”
“It’s fine. You’re fine.” Dean’s voice was raspy, laced with sleep.
Nights like these were common, almost routine for you and Dean. Sometimes it was you screaming through the night, pulling Dean closer; other times it Dean who clung to your figure as he fought to wake up.
“Thank you.” You finally settled on two simple words, before letting go of Dean. He gripped your hand and stood up from your bed.
“See you in the morning.” He said, and you turned onto your side, watching his figure leave as he shut the door.
When morning finally did come, you took a quick shower and met the brothers in the kitchen for breakfast.
“Anything new?” You asked Sam, who was leaning over the counter with a newspaper in his hand.
“Yeah, actually…” He trailed off, and you raised a brow at him.
Dean shrugged when your eyes met his, asking for an explanation.
You grabbed a piece of toast and buttered it, waiting patiently for Sam to finish the article and elaborate.
“How’d you sleep?” Dean asked suddenly, while taking the seat across from you at the table. Your eyes lifted to meet his.
“The second half of the night was definitely better.” You stated, “Thanks to you.”
“You should seriously consider watching some comedies before bed.” Dean joked, earning a soft smile from you.
You were about to respond when Sam interrupted.
“Guys-” He started, “This has got to be a werewolf.”
Sam placed the newspaper on the table, in between yours and Dean’s plates. His finger was stuck on one paragraph where an eyewitness account was written up.
“This woman described a werewolf kill, perfectly.” Sam looked between the two of you and you nodded, taking a bite of your toast.
“It’s worth checking out.” You stated.
“Where is it?” Dean asked.
Sam looked closer at the paper, “In the area, actually. A couple towns over.”
“Let’s leave in an hour.” Dean decided.
– – – –
Sam had done his research quickly, connecting the werewolf to a man who lived at the address Dean had finally pulled up to. The man might not even know that he is a killer at night. You swallowed thickly, staring at the front door.
“Here.” Dean jammed a handful of silver bullets into your palm, his fingers lingering for longer than they should have.
“Thanks.” You loaded them into your gun.
You grabbed your FBI jacket, and Dean watched as you popped the collar before setting it back down again.
“Let’s go, Agent.” You cracked a smile and tucked your gun into your pants.
Dean landed a curt knock on the door, and a very nice looking man swung the door open.
“Can I help you?” He asked, and you studied his face. He seemed kind. You sighed.
“I’m Agent Walters,” You said, flipping open your credentials.
Dean had grabbed the copy of this false identification, his reading Agent Walters as well.
“I’m her husband, Agent Walters.” Dean said, and you had to stifle a cough.
“Oh, how wonderful it must be to work side by side.” The man stated, opening the door further. “Come in. How can I help?”
While he busied himself with locking the door behind you and Dean, you whispered violently at Dean, asking for an explanation. He passed you his identification card, and you understood the mistake he had made.
“Fuck.” You whispered, and shuffled the card back to Dean.
“So, Mr. Williams,” You began, “There have been neighborhood disturbances as you have probably heard.”
“Yes, it’s been a tough month for this town.” He agreed.
“There has also been a murder, which we are hoping to shine more light onto.” You clasped your hands.
“Are you suggesting I know something?” Williams leaned back in his chair, eyes wide.
“What my wife here is trying to say is,” Dean’s hand met yours, prying your fingers apart and into his own. “We just need to know every detail possible.”
Dean’s attention wavered for a moment. He couldn’t focus on anything else but how perfectly his hand felt holding yours.
“Well, agents, I wish I could help. But actually, lately I’ve had a tough time with my memory. I must be getting older.” He stated, scratching at his head.
You looked at Dean, both of you understanding that Sam’s research was right. The sweet middle-aged man who sat before you, was a stone cold killer at night.
“That’s alright.” Your eyes hit the floor before meeting his, “Thank you.”
“If you think of anything else,” Dean gave him a false business card, “Call us.”
“No problem.” Mr. Williams shut the door, its slam sending chills up your spine.
You followed Dean back to the car.
“Well?” Sam asked from the passenger seat.
“We should check out the house tonight to make sure, but there’s a ninety percent chance it’s him.” You stated.
When the sun finally set, you decided to accompany Dean on the stakeout.
The Impala rested on the other side of the street from Mr. Williams’s home. You watched through the window as he turned on his television, watching a documentary of some sort.
The night air was cold, seeping its way into the car’s interior. You leaned over the seat and grabbed a blanket, draping it around yourself.
You looked over at Dean, his profile illuminated solely by the moonlight.
“Here.” Dean suddenly spoke, his hand reaching to pass you his hot coffee.
“It’s fine.” You smiled, “Thanks, though.”
He shrugged, “You sure?”
When you nodded, he finally took a sip.
You eyes wandered around the small suburban neighborhood. Trees lined the sidewalks, which tucked houses into their own landscapes.
“What?” Dean asked, watching your eyes.
You turned to him, “Imagine living somewhere like this.”
He exhaled and took another sip of his drink, “The bunker has more square footage.” He joked.
You cracked a smile, and nestled yourself deeper into the leather seat.
“Still…” You thought, “A window would be nice.”
Dean’s heart nearly broke at the statement. There were no windows in the bunker, just bricks lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
“Let’s buy a house then.” Dean said. His tone was serious, but you took it as a joke. A laugh bubbled up from your throat. Dean wasn’t one for a picket-fence life, but he’d do it for you. He would do absolutely anything, for you.
“Yeah, we’ll pay a mortgage and everything.” You continued to smile through your sentence.
“If that’s what you want.” Dean stated simply.
You furrowed your brows, slowly realizing he might just be serious. You searched his face for an answer, but a loud crash ripped you from your concentration.
“Call Sam.” Dean tossed you his phone before grabbing his gun.
Sam was right. Williams, in werewolf form, had just broken straight through his large window, and was running towards the woodsy area down the street.
You punched in Sam’s number, asking him to come as backup.
Thirty minutes later, you were deep in the trees foliage, with Sam only a couple yards behind you and Dean.
“Dean.” Sam called forwards.
The eldest Winchester stopped in his tracks, putting out his arm so you would stop as well.
“He’s going to make his way back out to civilization soon enough.” Sam said quietly. “He needs to kill.”
You sighed and looked between both brothers.
“Then, let’s meet him there first.” You suggested. “Beat him to it.”
The three of you walked nearly six blocks before hitting a small city-like town that bordered the one you had just left. Nearly every store was already shut. Light from the streetlamps flooded the streets with a stale yellow that made your stomach churn. You hated hunting at night.
“There.” Dean whispered, motioning with his hand towards a motel.
A large shadow was walking towards the side entrance, you recognized it as the wolf instantly.
“Shit.” You muttered, seeing a woman standing by the same door.
It wasn’t until a large growl sounded that Sam and Dean began sprinting across the street, running as fast as they possibly could.
You caught up quickly, keeping your eyes trained on the innocent woman.
It wasn’t a thought-through move. You hadn’t had to think twice when you saw the wolf pounce forward. Instantly, you dove forward, pushing the woman to the ground.
“Y/N!” Dean shouted.
A heavy weight landed on you. The werewolf’s claws ripped through your arm and your body responded with a blood curdling scream.
Somewhere, you heard the echoes of bullets being fired.
“Dean! Stop!” You heard Sam shout. In a matter of seconds, the wolf was pushed off of your body. Dean had jumped forward and put all of his weight into knocking the monster off. Your head hit the pavement for the second time that night as the wolf’s claws let go.
You fell unconscious while Dean shot at it, killing it with two bullets to the chest.
“What the hell, Dean?!” Sam shouted at his brother. “You could’ve killed yourself like that!”
He ignored his brother, and instead knelt down to your figure. He grabbed his jacket and peeled it off before wrapping it around your bleeding arm.
“Your priority is killing the monster, not yourself!”
“No.” Dean stated, his voice elevating, “Y/N, is my priority!”
Sam’s eyes widened as he stared at his brother.
“Now, help me.” Dean took in a deep breath and began trying to wake you up.
As the blood loss began to slow due to Dean applying pressure, your eyes began to open.
Darkness was the first thing you saw, until the moon came into view. Your back was pressed against the pavement, your head in someone’s hand.
“She’s up.” The voice was muffled. Your initial reaction was to move, to get away from the situation; but, the sudden resurfacing of blinding pain in your arm caused you to groan.
“Come on, Y/N. We gotta go.” Green eyes were staring into your own.
The owner of the new sandwich shop on the border between the “rough” and the “good” parts of Central City didn’t think much about the typed “Supervillains eat free” sign that their employee put up in the window until the first of the infamous Rogues Gallery strolled in and asked for a sandwich in full costume. True to their sign, the owner made the sandwich on the house and handed it over with shaking hands. The Rogue left a twenty in the tip jar and sauntered out without breaking anything or demanding any money.
SYRIA. Rojava. Aleppo governorate. Kobanê/Ayn al-Arab. October 20, 2014. An explosion rocks the border city during a reported attack by ISIS militants on a People’s Protection Unit (YPG) position in the city centre.
Glorious Gems of MP - The Woven History of Chanderi
The fabric of Chanderi has great tales woven into them. The name of the town itself is synonymous with the world of exquisitely hand-crafted saris. The unique warp and weft of chanderi saris are one of the best kept secrets of this town. The saris are woven out of very fine threads making them extremely lightweight and wearable all year long. And the trade of these sarees has been passed on from one generation to the other, and each member of the family makes a significant contribution to the craft.
Chanderi saris use cotton and silk for the base, and zari butis are woven using extra weft technique. It is amazing to watch each motif being created by hand, one thread at a time. The more complex designs on borders and pallu are now made by dobby and jacquard (complex cards are added to the loom). The beautiful colours (neembu-lemon, narangi-orange, tamatari-tomato) and motifs (leaves, mango, chana-peas) are all inspired by nature.
With a background in Textile Design, I was completely drawn to the painstakingly detailed process of weaving. During my graduate programme I had to make a number of table loom samples and if that was challenging for me, Chanderi weaving is a class apart in its mastery. The simplest of Chanderi sari takes at least 3 days to weave, depending on the motifs and complexity of the design. All the weavers have soft hands enabling them to work with extremely fine threads. There are about 5000 weavers working on looms in Chanderi today.
Later, I got an opportunity to meet a few master weavers and visit their homes. The little time I spent with them will remain in my memory forever. The honesty and sincerity of these talented craftsmen humbled me. I was gazing with wide eyes at the beautiful sari being made right in front of me and in that moment I gained deep respect for these guys, for it takes a colossal effort to set up the loom. With the meticulous addition of each buti (motif), I saluted them for the enormous creativity, patience, skill and sincerity required to master this process.
Looking at my enthusiasm, one of the weavers narrated a small couplet for me:
“In the city of Chanderi where weavers dwell, women rule whereas men fill water”
Master weaver Abdul Fareed, who has been in this business since the last 20 years, showed me some of his sarees. His favourite color is Gajari Pink (Carrot Pink) and favourite motif is Keri (Mango).
Spending time at the weavers’ basti, I was curious to know about the origins of these Bunkars (weavers). “How did the city of looms come to be?”, I enquired. And my guide Kalle bhai, a very erudite man told me the story of the weaver community.
It is believed that they came from the lost city of Gaur Lakhnauti - an ancient city that thrived on the India-Bangladesh border. Kalle bhai’s quest to search the origins of this ancient city led him to Bangladesh in 2011 where he discovered art, crafts and even dialect similar to that of Chanderi. He has penned his research and findings in a deeply engrossing book.
Another highlight of Chanderi saris is the kaala tika (black spot) that each weaver puts on the sari marking its originality and more importantly to protect it from the evil’s eye - a practice common in India.
Some of the traditional designs are Masrai Dadia Sari, Do Chashmi (both sides can be worn), Daadi Dar, BaaneBar and Mehandi Bhari Haath. One master weaver has been weaving the Mehandi Bhari Haath sari since 1976. Chanderi fabrics are so precious that they are treated like a newborn baby, with utmost care. Legend has it that Chanderi was the most prized fabric of Akbar’s court. With diminishing royalty, Chanderi fabric also saw downfall in production and skilled craftsmen. When Madhav Rao Scindia I inherited the throne, he established a training centre for the weavers of Chanderi.
A centre that is making waves across the city and the country is Chanderiyaan- a cluster of weavers part of Digital Empowerment Foundation (DEF) and Media Lab Asia. It is a social entrepreneurial initiative towards sustaining livelihoods of the Chanderi weavers community. Set up in the Raja Rani Mahal where heritage seeps through each and every wall, Chanderiyaan is an opportunity for weavers to bypass the hefty network of middlemen and sell their creations directly in the global market. That’s why they call it the Digital village of Chanderi.
Designers from all over the country come to Chanderiyaan to develop their weaves and saris. It felt great to see digital empowerment allowing the craft to live long and prosper.
The looms shall be etched in my memory for years to come and the weavers shall continue to remind me of their rich heritage, pride and modesty. The exquisitely crafted saris will wrap me around in their sheer radiance. With a hope to return someday, I bade salaam and left this magnificent city.
About the artist
Neethi Goldhawk is an independent illustrator and textile print designer who loves drawing all things dreamy, inspired by nature and life. She has illustrated for platforms like Redbull Amaphiko and Launchora. Her pen name (Goldhawk) was concocted in the crowded space of her mind full of absurd characters, who are but little children at heart. She is an avid Tumblr blogger and can be found here
“With Trump’s rise to power, thousands of Haitians seeking entry to the US are now left stranded at the northern Mexico border. But Black migration is not new to Mexico, as people from the African Diaspora have lived here for centuries. In this short documentary, we meet Haitians stuck at the border as well as Africans in Mexico City to explore Black migration and identity in Mexico.” via Vimeo link