engaged resistance

A letter to all women
You are valuable. You were created to be light in this world, to bring joy, and on days that you can’t even pick yourself up, to let others know that life does not end there. That it’s also okay to break down for a little while, that we’ve all been there. Woman, you are free. Pay no attention to those, even fellow sisters, that tell you what to wear, what to do, how many boys or girls you can kiss before you officially become a slut, before you become used or impure. Do whatever feels right, feel whatever you truly want. Pay no attention to those who are capable of making the same mistakes as you but think they’re too perfect to ever fail. And maybe those mistakes aren’t even mistakes. Maybe it was just you, growing into the dazzling woman that you’re meant to be, maybe it was another experience in the book of all the things that you’ve done and that are to come. Maybe it was a lesson. Pay no attention to those that say you’re not as worthy as them, to those that tell you that you can’t be successful, smart enough, good enough, pretty enough. Rage. Fight. Live, breathe and cling to what you not only think but know that is fair, and not only fair, but merely human. Speak up. Resist. Engage, communicate and develop your right to rule your own body, to wear whatever you want knowing that if a person gets angry at you for being “provocative” it’s only their problem because they’re not enough of a respectful person to understand that you’re not “asking for it”, you’re just living. Wear whatever you want knowing that if someone makes fun of you, mistreats you or abuses you in any way because you chose to cover yourself up or dress yourself down, they just weren’t raised right, they just don’t know what it’s like to view things from different perspectives or just to be you. Shout. Protest. Be displeased, rebel and say no to people that think they have any kind of control over you. It’s your choice who you want to be with, it’s your choice if you want to keep the baby, it’s your choice if today you don’t want to go to the party, it’s your choice if you want to wear the sweatpants or the tight dress. It’s your choice if you’re going to let others rule your life or be enslaved by this intolerant world. Let your sisters know that we can’t afford to put each other down anymore. We can’t afford to keep on slut shaming when all we’re asking for is respect and we’re not giving it back, or setting the example to do so. We can’t afford to verbally abuse one another when all me might have needed was a little advice and a lot of support. We need to be there for every single woman out there because no one else is going to fight for equality or be informed of what equality really means, if we can’t even come together and stop fighting with each other instead of fighting towards a fair, respectful, equal and dignified world. Stop thinking that there’s already too many of us fighting for the cause and that you’re not needed, there aren’t enough people. We need every single woman helping, giving advice, letting people know of this injustice that we’re living, that not only because you’re comfortable and everyone accepts you as you are, does it mean that somewhere else in the world there aren’t girls who are not even allowed to dream. We stop being free when we give up our control. We stop being free when we remain quiet. We stop being free when we stand by and watch others live what you should or want to be living. We stop being free when we let comfort and tranquility seduce us into a life of nothingness. Be released.
—  macsun //m.ch

amysantiagone  asked:

In Rogue One, Cassian Andor states that he's been fighting for the rebels since he was 6 years old. Assuming he meant literal combating, would his personality be similar to that of a child raised for combat? Would there be any differences?

This is sort of a yes and no, as all children involved in violent conflicts from an early age are affected by it. However, the children who take part in rebellions aren’t in the same category of the child soldiers discussed on this blog before, though they absolutely share similarities.

Kids involved in rebellions are rarely used as frontline combatants. They’re far too valuable for that. Instead, they function as informants, carriers, and, occasionally, saboteurs. They’re not the one who picks up the gun to shoot down enemy soldiers in a safe zone. They’re the ones who move the gun past the security perimeter or receive it from the old man or woman who did and plant it. They’re the ones hanging around befriending enemy soldiers in bars or cantinas so they can tip their friends off about where the troops are moving to next. Children, women, the elderly, those generally viewed as non-combatants, the ones that society overlooks or views as “safe” are often the backbone of any resistance movement.

They get the goods, they move the packages, they carry the messages between resistance cells, they sometimes take care of the equipment, and they do most of the footwork that allows a resistance to engage the enemy. When they do fight, it’s generally in the form of sabotage like finding and slipping poison into the enemy troop’s stew, planting bombs, or because survival necessitates it when their cover is blown.

As a child, Cassian Andor would have a background common with other children in rebellions depicted in media like ‘Phan Duc To’ from Good Morning, Vietnam! (1987) and the children involved in The Battle of Algiers (1966).

If you’ve never seen Good Morning, Vietnam! I just spoiled the movie.

The Battle of Algiers is a great movie if you’re looking for an honest overview of how rebellions function on both sides of the conflict or just a treatment on the French colonization of Algeria. Fair warning, it is not an english language film. Kiera Nerys from Star Trek: Deep Space 9 is another decent character to look at when wanting to model a background for a resistance fighter who joined as a child. G’kar from Babylon 5 and the entire Narn/Centauri conflict is also an excellent example of the enduring hatreds and issues brought by colonization.

One of the qualities you see in these children and then again as adults is pure, unadulterated hatred for their oppressors. More so than the other kinds, they hate. Often to the point of becoming a new version of the enemy their resistance was attempting to drive off.

Cassian would’ve spent a lot of time hanging around rebel fighters, doing odd jobs for them until the day came when they were short a man or needed a message run by someone who wouldn’t attract attention.

If this has started to sound like spycraft, well, you’re not far off. Resistances don’t have the luxury of major battle offensives like an army, and even guerilla warfare is actually a step up from what happens on the ground, and there is a common word you’ll find familiar for what they do: terrorism.

The actions of a resistance fighter and the actions of a terrorist are one and the same, the only difference is in who is telling the story. If you want to investigate real resistances without the judgements, study up on World War II, the French Resistance, and the Maquis.

Yes, that Maquis not the one from Star Trek.

On the ground resistances are rough and ready, they’re often split apart into distinct cells comprised of only a few agents, and almost no one knows who is higher up the food chain. This is important because it protects the other operating cells and resistance leadership in case an operative is captured by the enemy.

For the most part, whether you’re writing historical fiction or a foray into science fiction, the philosophy, goals, and strategy of a resistance will remain the same. What changes is how they go about operating within their setting because, like spies, a resistance requires the author have a solid grasp on how the enemy functions, the details in how they hold power, the technology they have access to, and how their army works.

On a literal and literary level, the Resistance is about disruption. Whether they’re sabotaging train tracks, blowing up food transports, or bombing nightclubs, their goal is to disrupt everyday life and make it as unpleasant as possible. They’re ghosts in the system, you’ll never know where or when they’ll strike, and they’re out to destroy enemy moral every way they can. A resistance drives the enemy from their homeland by making the cost of holding it no longer worthwhile. Though, historically, this is often impossible unless the majority of the population joins the cause and/or the tide of public sentiment back home within the enemy’s homeworld or nation turns against the invaders. A resistance occurring against the powerful within their own homeland is much, much more destructive.

What marks a character like Cassian, who grew up in a resistance movement, more than other children engaged in violence is first and foremost betrayal. Betrayal from without, betrayal from within, the people he’s lied to and betrayed, seeing many friends vanish overnight or die, and never quite knowing who he can trust. He probably has very few friends left alive from his early days with the Rebellion, and more than likely experienced the Imperials wiping out his cell(s) on multiple occasions. He worked his way up the ranks until he became an operative working closely within the Rebellion’s inner circle.

Star Wars is functionally much more clear cut than the real resistances that occur throughout the world.

Happy writing!

-Michi

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This week there’s something more important than the Productivity Challenge or my photos of coffee and books or getting your bullet journal in order. This week is the week to engage, educate and resist

Engage with politics. This is the week to start if you haven’t before or to ramp it up if you’re already involved. Read, write, protest, repeat. Give your time and privilege to help others. 

Educate yourself. Your education is a radical act, don’t let it stop and don’t restrict yourself to your own subject. Learn about the historic struggles underpinning today’s politics and tell others. Use your education to inform your activism and your activism to inform your education.

Resist injustice. In the street, on campus, on the bus. Resist it at a protest or on social media. Do as much as you can, do not stand idly by whilst injustice occurs around you. Ignorance is complicity, action is resistance.

If you have queries/questions about this, hit me up. This week I’m going to focus on the crossover between our education and our resistance. If I lose followers, I will cope. 

4

In honor of pride month, the work of: Barton Lidice Beneš, Lethal Weapons (filled with artists’ own hiv+ blood), 1992.

Beneš was a first-generation veteran of the AIDS crisis and chronicled his own HIV+ status in Lethal Weapons, a series of works created with his own blood. This exhibit toured Europe in the 1990s and traveled to Lund, Sweden, where authorities intervened and demeaned installation be heated to 160 degrees Fahrenheit in a hospital oven to make it “safe” for public viewing. These provocative pieces confront HIV/AIDS head-on, blending political activism, visual poetry and a wicked sense of humor, forcing viewers to face their fears of death and transmission. His work continues to serve as a symbol of resistance, engaging a new generation in the evolving conversation about art and AIDS.

4

“so dogs do have breakfast.” -cas probably

(inspired by cas taking crowley’s words relating to a dog’s breakfast quite literally like the precious cinnamon bun that he is)

6

From A Friend:

Important ideas for moving forward into the new world:

1: collectivize EVERYTHING. we need medical collectives that go beyond first aid and street safety, we need self defense collectives, food and clothing production and distribution collectives, etc etc etc. WE MUST START INFRASTRUCTURALLY SUPPORTING EACH OTHER OUTSIDE OF THE CAPITALIST PARADIGM

2: DO LEGAL SUPPORT FOR PEOPLE WHO GET ARRESTED, ESPECIALLY THOSE MORE RADICAL THAN YOU. historically, anarchists and other anticapitalist anti authoritarians have fundraised and supported the actions and legal defense teams of liberals and progressives. we no longer have the time or resources to do that. its our turn. support us or fuck off.

3: PHYSICALLY DEFEND PEOPLE OF MARGINALIZED COMMUNITIES. use your privilege to keep others safe. whether that means going to the store with them or punching nazis in the face.

4: NORMALIZE RESISTANCE, NEVER NORMALIZE OR LEGITIMIZE FASCISM. we must CONSTANTLY resist the idea that genocidal fascist and capitalist ideologies are in any way to be debated. they must be destroyed. likewise, it is CRITICAL that we shatter the narrative that those who participate in active resistance are somehow morally responsible for state repression. DO NOT LET PEOPLE GET AWAY WITH FRAMING BLM, INDIGENOUS WARRIORS, ANTIFA, ETC AS THE ENEMY. the true enemy is the social order that has created a white supremacist fascist hell that seeks to destroy every bit of liberty we fight so fucking hard for.

5: FIGHT HOW YOU CAN. Every act of resistance matters. Social media, in the streets, at home. Staying alive and as healthy as possible is resistance. Punching nazis in the face is resistance. Standing up to the fascist police state is resistance. Don’t overextend yourself, and do not EVER imply that those who engage in their resistance in a way that is different or more/less militant than yours (assuming similar goals of course) are somehow morally inferior. We are in this for the long haul and it is IMPERATIVE that we take care of ourselves. Supporters AND those in the streets need to remember that neither would be effective without the other, and every person’s role, however they choose to engage, is vital.

6: NEVER FUCKING SNITCH This one is self explanatory. Don’t sell out anyone on our team. This includes taking pictures of faces at demos, theorizing about who may have done what “illegal” act, and other forms of soft snitching.

7: BE STEADFAST This is going to be a long and bumpy road. You will get scared, demoralized and hopeless many many times. But there is light in the darkness, and we are making it grow.

Fanfiction - A Lifetime of Her (Part III)

Part III – “You don’t know how lovely you are”

Twenty-four

The night was unusually dark, even for the end of September – the scarce light of public illumination swallowed by scraps of mist, like cold long fingers, stretching to capture an unwary victim. But the lack of visible stars caused me more dismay – the feeling of infinity I usually felt gazing above my head, of endless life beyond the flapping of butterflies’ wings of human existence, veiled beyond my reach. I felt small and locked outside of a mystery that made my life more meaningful.

I was walking fast across Princes Street, my hands buried on the pockets of my overcoat, thinking about the job interview I had endured that day – a promising position as a Math teacher for a local high school, very surprising considering my lack of experience and the fact that I was fresh out of college. The headmistress had seemed pleasant and competent, interested in knowing things about my personal life as well as my academic course – inevitably she had asked why I had took almost an entire year off school, four years ago. I had answered truthfully, reassuring her about my full recovery.

To my right I could see the Gardens and the outline of the Scottish National Gallery, one of my favourite places in Edinburgh to relax and spend some free time. Without a second thought, I decided to make a shortcut across the park, which would lead me straight to the neighbourhood where I had rented a small, yet cosy, apartment.

I saw her before I could even hear her – she was standing alone, talking on the phone, close to the museum entrance. She was wearing a long black dress with sleeves, which fitted perfectly her mesmerizing body, kissing her curves with fabric lips – her hair pinned up in a simple but elegant knot. She sounded distressed and – I thought – angry enough to make me want to run in the other direction. I recognized her instantly, even in such different circumstances than those of our last encounter – Claire.

I walked – levitated, really – towards her, without any notion of why I was doing it. Perhaps I meant to thank her for what she had done in the past. Maybe I was fascinated by the idea that, for once, I could be her saviour. She was clearly dressed for an elegant party – as I approached the building, I noticed several people in similar clothing, probably heading for some sort of gala inside.

I could hear her talking more clearly, her voice quick and deadly, like the stab of a dagger. “Fine!” She snapped, suddenly finishing her conversation. Claire looked at her phone with aversion, like she was considering the idea of throwing it to the nearby bushes.

I was near enough for her to notice my presence – without recognizing me, she quickly composed her expression and looked at her phone with pretended interest, fearing any unwanted advances from a strange man in the night.

“Claire?” I called her, as I reached the circle of light streamed through the museum’s doors. Her eyes jumped to mine and softened, as she promptly identified me.

“Jamie!” She greeted me, smiling – her lips were a soft pink with the touch of discrete lipstick. “How are you?”

“Good.” I grinned back – a gesture that almost entirely faded away as I noticed the ring on her finger. It was a sizable diamond, shining like a beacon made of crystal, outrageously dominant on her slender finger. An engagement ring.  “I couldna resist, coming to say hello.”

“It’s so good to see you!” Claire seemed honestly happy and warm – a million miles away from the cold glacier of moments before. “Are you coming to the charity gala too?”

“Ach, nae.” I gave her a lopsided smile and raised my brow. “Is that why ye’re here?”

“Yes.” She shrugged, sliding her phone inside her black satin clutch. “I was waiting for my fiancé but it seems he is…rather busy at the moment. He won’t be coming.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said softly, trying to abstract myself of how magnificent she looked – dark as the night, but with millions of stars inside her. “I’m sure ye’ll have a lovely time, nonetheless.”

“I doubt that.” She replied, somewhat conspiratorially. “This night was organized by a friend of my uncle – he was kind enough to invite me in honour of his memory. Actually, I don’t know a living soul inside those doors.” Claire’s eyes darkened, sadness creeping in. “Maybe I’ll just go home and send him my apologies afterwards.”

“No!” I instantly rejected the idea. “Perhaps I could go with ye?” I suggested in a cool tone, praying that I wasn’t about to blush. I pointed to my black attire, matched with a grey tie. “I’m wearing a suit after all.”

“That you are.” She smiled, with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Do you really don’t mind?” Claire asked, nervously adjusting a stubborn curl that had fled her hairdo. “We could just pretend you’re my fiancé. No one really knows Frank, either way.”

“Of course, lass.” I mockingly offered her my arm for her to hold. “Shall we?”

We entered the party, quickly mingling with the crowd – an assorted array of wealthy men and women, with a taste for art and philanthropy - or for ostentation. Soon enough we had located the canapé and champagne flutes, launching ourselves in a conversation about the artistry on display – or lack of it.

“So, are you fully recovered?” Claire eventually asked me over the live jazz music, that a small band was playing in the corner, a saxophone crying about the loss of an imperfect lover.

“Aye.” I nodded, offering her one of my owlish winks. “I’m so verra thankful for what ye did for me – I…”

“Don’t be silly!” She dismissed emphatically, waving her hand. “I should be the one to thank you!” And seeing my puzzled look, she leaned over and talked closer to my ear. “After what you told me, I went ahead and applied to medical school. I work some shifts as a nurse to pay my bills, but I’m a proud med student!”

“That is wonderful!” I congratulated her, squeezing her hand – soft and capable, warm under my fingers as a pulsing heart. “I’m so glad!”

I convinced her to dance, afterwards. She conceded with an amused smile. We swayed together, amongst other couples – I wasn’t an eager dancer and had no memory of a time when the idea of dancing had seemed appealing to me. But with Claire everything was natural and effortless – every move and word had the magical quality of destiny, of a life finally fulfilled. I tried very hard to overlook the shackles symbolized by her ring, the deafening warning of a tragedy I was powerless to avoid. She had wilfully surrender to the dragon – I couldn’t be her saving knight.

“So what happened to yer fiancé?” I asked tentatively, my hand struggling not to caress her lower back. God, it seemed so easy to touch her, to hold her against me. “Ye seemed distraught.”

“He had a meeting with another faculty assistant.” She pursed her lips in discontent, her eyes avoiding his – hiding her pain and shame. “Something about a spectacular discovery in his newest research.”

“Oh.” I babbled, trying to sound charitable. “Have ye been engaged for a long time?”

“A couple of months.” Claire sighed, her fingers accidentally brushing the back of my neck and making me shiver, preparing to confess her secrets under the protection of the music around us. “Actually, he has been invited to go to America to teach – and asked me to go with him.”

“And will ye?” I asked, almost breathless – pushing down the sudden feeling of panic, like a dark wave that threatened to swallow the skyscrapers of my soul. “Go with him?”

“I honestly don’t know.” She admitted slowly, wincing a little. “But I accepted his proposal so…I should want to go with him, shouldn’t I?”

“I dinna ken much about serious relationships.” I said in a hoarse voice. “But I dinna understand how a man can leave a woman like ye, alone, in such a night. I dinna ken how anything can be more important than being with ye.”

“It’s complicated!” She tried to argue, but her voice lacked the vigour of certainty. “He has to work a lot to get recognized. Sometimes he has to let go of superfluous things, as much as I –“

“Dinna say that!” My voice was a deep rumble, suddenly stripped of all civility. “Ye should be the priority in his life, lass. Ye are a wonderful woman.” I gulped. “Any man deserving of being with ye, should give ye the place ye deserve in his life. Never settle for less, Claire.”

She nodded, looking away to hide the sudden threat of tears. Eventually, her body relaxed and her cheek came to rest in the lapel of my blazer, silently thanking me for my support. I could feel the small movements of her lashes, the hot breath of her life so close to my heart – I never felt more alive, nor more defeated.

We talked and danced the night away – I made her twirl and laugh, until her face was less pale, more like the lively girl in the graveyard, so alive amongst my ghosts.

At the end of the night, I escorted her to a taxi – not daring to offer her my company to her doorway. I feared what the intoxicating mixture of her and the champagne might conjure up.

She smiled – skilfully tucking something inside the pocket of my overcoat – and stood on her toes to kiss my cheek in a tender goodbye. Later, feeling less overwhelmed by the lack of stars, I read her note – “In case you need it. XO”. She had added a phone number underneath the short sentence and a funny smiley face, with abundant curly hair.

I kept her note under my pillow for the next few weeks – a silent dare, urging me to take a leap of faith. I was convinced that my path was fundamentally entwined with Claire’s – it had to be a reason for the insistency of life to place her in my way. She lured me in – fascinated me.

I must have grabbed the phone, adamant on calling her, half a dozen times. Started to dial her phone number – by then carved on my brain with luminescent red ink of desire – at least a dozen more. I mentally prepared our conversation – tried different variations of casualness, honesty and tenderness. I laid awake at night, gazing at the phone, ominous and teasing.

Iffrin!” I desperately reprehended myself one night, almost a month after the gala. I clenched my teeth, breathed deeply several times, and made the call – prepared to invite her for innocent coffee.

“The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” – said the mechanical and metallic voice that took me back to a place with no stars.

Peregrine Derrick, left, and Lucian Bole, right. While the two were both Slytherins (Class of ‘95), they didn’t become close friends until they became Beaters as third years on the Slytherin Quidditch team, after which they were nearly inseparable. The pair were known for throwing some of the best soirees the disused music parlour has ever seen, complete with absinthe cocktails and a full jazz band that they somehow procured. Lucian was the smooth talker and mouthpiece of the two, while Peregrine, who was self-conscious about his stutter, rarely said a word outside of his frequent whispers in Lucian’s ear.

Both Peregrine and Lucian were actively engaged in underground Resistance to Voldemort’s fascist wixen regime of the late 1990s, as the two operated an illegal anti-ministry newspaper and were able to travel freely throughout the wixen world owing to Peregrine’s Quidditch career. After the war, the couple were married at Stonehenge, and Peregrine became the first professional Quidditch player with one arm, having lost the other to curse damage at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Photograph courtesy of the Hogwarts Archives.

(Alexander McQueen)

Jaune Quick-to-See Smith,
Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?, 2012

_____________________________________________

“My point is I want people to know we’re alive!  Collectors only want the old stuff.  They don’t buy the contemporary stuff, some of which is so beautiful (her voice slipping to a whisper), so well crafted.  They keep talking about the Vanishing Americans, but we’re everywhere, and we find one another.  But we’re low-key, we don’t have a Martin Luther King, and so we get overlooked.“

Before our white brothers came to civilize us we had no jails. Therefore we had no criminals. You can’t have criminals without a jail. We had no locks or keys, and so we had no thieves. If a an was so poor that he had no horse, tipi or blanket, someone gave him these things. We were to uncivilized to set much value on personal belongings. We wanted to have things only in order to give them away. We had no money, and therefore a man’s worth couldn’t be measured by it. We had no written law, no attorneys or politicians, therefore we couldn’t cheat. We really were in a bad way before the white men came, and I don’t know how we managed to get along without these basic things which, we are told, are absolutly necessary to make a civilized society.
—  John Lame Deer, Lame Deer, Seeker of Visions

anonymous asked:

eh, you can be a shawol but still be objective. minho is NOT talented in anything except being attractive, key is decent at dancing but his singing is literally horrible and he looks dead half of the time. even the kpopvocalanalysis site have said minkey CAN'T sing and those ppl are professionals. not everyone in a group has to be talented anyway, it's just pop music after all, but it's undeniable that jonghyun is the most talented and likable by far.

Fight for What's Right

“They told me you got into a fight today at school.” Thomas stated. You brought your fork to your lips, shrugging slightly. Needless to say, you had gotten in a fight, but you weren’t in the mood to discuss it. Your father watched you with great intensity. It was only under a heavy gaze did he notice the slow-forming bruise under your cheek.

“Is that a bruise?” He asked. “Did that boy punch you?” You quickly placed a hand over it. Of course he had punched you! You had punched him first, after all. But that’s what you get when you talk shit about someone’s parent. You had been hoping it wouldn’t be visible under the powder placed over it.
Thomas rose from his seat. He approached you, taking your chin in his hand and examining the injury. Gently, he wiped the makeup away, finding that it was much worse than he thought. Though he did love purple, it was less beautiful when marking his child’s cheek.

“For heavens sake, come along, lets go.” You were too afraid to speak. Was he angry, or upset? Worse yet, was he disappointed? You couldn’t bear the thought of your father being angry with you. He led you to the wash room, taking great care when lifting you to the counter. He dabbed your face with a wet cloth, something that would usually be the maids job. You could barely hear his words over the blood pumping in your ears. Something along the lines of ‘did he hit you anywhere else?’
Gently slipping the sleeves of your dress from your shoulder, you showed him the bruises and cuts on your ribs and collar bone. He swore aloud at the sight.

“Do you know his name?” He finally asked. Fear flashed in your eyes. The worst thing he could possibly do was to interfere in your school life.

“No.” you lied. He could tell you were fibbing, however. Though the boy claimed that lying was your fathers profession, it was apparent you hadn’t picked up this skill. Thomas gave you a stern look. Fighting and lying all in one day, what would be next? Would you join a brothel?

“(Y/n)…”

“Père, it doesn’t matter. I taught Philip not to-”

“Hamilton’s boy?” Thomas snarled. Well there goes that secret. You nodded slightly. “Wait until I get my hands on that brat! He is no better than his father.” You had never met Mr. Hamilton, nor did you ever intend to, but it seemed your father was not fond of him. You felt the same way about his son.

The next day at school, you did your very best to avoid Philip Hamilton. However, he did not do his best to avoid you. In fact, he waltzed right up to you to engage another fight.
You resisted, though. You didn’t want to be a disappointment to your father. You told him to be no such thing as well, but he didn’t like to listen. He didn’t enjoy advice, especially from girls. You now had a black eye to prove it.
That evening, you slammed the door much harder than anticipated. There were no consequences, though. Your father and Uncle James were in New York for the day, attending a cabinet meeting.
You refused to let the maids care for you. Once in the confines of your own room, you broke. Tears stained your face, your eyes red and nose sniffly. This was the one time you were happy to be alone.

“Darling, I’m home!” Your father called. You froze. If he saw you with another injury, you couldn’t handle the embarrassment (especially since you hadn’t fought back). From the sound of it, your Uncle was here as well. Placing some powder over the bruises, you made your way down stairs.

“Uncle James, Père, welcome back!” You cried with (false) joy. In all honesty, you were hoping they would be held up until at least tomorrow. The men both gave her a kiss on each cheek, a tradition she had learned in France, before returning to their discussion about dinner. It seemed James would be staying with you tonight.

Dandy, one more person to hide from.

They talked about politics and Hamilton at dinner, not giving you a glance or a word. In all honestly, you were surprised they hadn’t noticed your eye. It was swollen beyond belief, so much that you couldn’t properly see.
This became apparent when you almost placed a hand in the mashed potatoes.

“(Y/n), are you alright?” Thomas asked. After the little incident the other night, he was attempting to be watchful. Watchful he was, as he noticed that your eye was almost completely shut.
James let out a small “oh dear” and excused himself from the table. He knew things were about to get ugly, and quick. Whoever hurt Thomas’s little girl would not live to see tomorrow. Especially since this was the second time they had done it.
He could still hear the argument between him and Hamilton that had erupted at the meeting this morning.

‘Hamilton!’

'Ah, Thomas! Just the man I wanted to see.’ The room fell dead silent at his statement. Hamilton, wanting to see Jefferson? Impossible!

'Yeah, right. Listen, tell your little brat to keep his hands off my kid.’ Thomas snarled. Alexander merely laughed, giving Thomas a pat on the cheek.

'Would you like to hear the story of last night? Because from what I’ve been told, it’s your girl who can’t keep her hands to herself.’

'In his dreams. She was defending me!’

'Think long and hard about what you just said. You shouldn’t bring your kid into-’

'Then don’t force your opinion upon Philip.’ Alexander stood in shock. It was true he had mentioned his work at home, but he would never force his son to have an opinion he didn’t want! The man scoffed and returned to his seat.

'Francophile.’ He muttered.

He could hear the two arguing from upstairs. This would not be a pretty sight in the end

“I cannot believe the nerve of Hamilton-carbon copy.” Thomas muttered angrily as he examined your newest injury. You gently pushed his hand away, looking down in shame. He was disappointed in you FOR fighting, but now he was disappointed in you for not fighting. Next, would he be disappointed in you for breathing?

“Look at me.” You continued to stare at the tiled floor. “Lamb, look.at.me.” He lifted your chin ever-so-gently, only to find tears in your eyes. He softly kissed your head.

“I’m sorry, Père. I thought you’d be mad if I fought back.” You said through silent tears. He shook his head and put an arm around you.

“Me? Mad about defense? Never.” He promised. “Now, how about you and I settle this, once and for all?”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

Examination of Conscience for Depression & Bipolar


Lent is a season of repentance. It is a time for taking stock of one’s life, facing the personal lies we often tell ourselves about ourselves, confessing to a priest, and then proceeding to make changes, convert.

There are many objective sins that can be symptoms of depression or mania. So the issue of culpability, the degree of responsibility for committing those sins is always a consideration best discussed with a priest who hopefully understands the nature of the condition. But that is not the topic here. Here I will make some suggestions for a practical examination of conscience for those affected by depression and bipolar illness. Here they are.

1. Have I neglected to seek help even when I know deep inside that “something’s not quite right?” Have I refused to listen to the advice of a friend or family member who has stated, “something’s not right with you?” If so, is it because I’ve been too proud or too afraid to seek help?

2. Have I cancelled appointments with doctors or therapists because I don’t want to face that I may need to take medicine or actually engage in therapy? What excuses am I using?

3. Have I showed up for therapy but resisted engaging or doing therapy homework? How do I rationalize this?

4. Have I blamed others or situations for my deteriorating moods rather than take responsibility for them?

5. Have I avoided treatment for mania because I like the energy, in spite of the fact that mania progressively gets worse without treatment?

6. Have I minimized my children’s cries for help indicated through changes in their behavior, mood, and sometimes even their verbal requests for help? Is that because I’m afraid of being thought of as a bad parent or having to face that I may have depression? Yes, when a parent has depression the children are affected (as well as the marriage).

Giving up fear, pride, and avoidance are much better than giving up candy or coffee.

It is said that a good examination of conscience followed by a good confession is good for the soul. It is also good for the mind, emotions, and heart if that confession is followed by action.