Watching the third movie in the series, a subconscious fear of non-whites and of non-middle classed people becomes apparent. Upon the knight bus the only black presence is a shrunken black man's head dangling from a string, as if the subconscious felt the need to remove the body, to render it a helpless figure. Even disempowered in this way the black head is relentlessly upbeat as the slaves and "Uncle Tom's" were portrayed. Added to this the "shrunken heads" in the pub, the first non-white presence in the pub bring to mind voodoo stereotypes and such racism. Working class characters are also made degenerate in some way, socially darwinistic views playing out. Stan Shunpike looks as if he has some terrible skin disease, Ernie is of feeble form, and the welcomer at the inn is a hunch back. Filch, the 'working class' representation in Hogwarts is mean, physically unappealing, stupid and his name in British English translates as meaning "sneaky thief." Apparently, normal and safe is middle class white people. I can't bring to mind any significant character that is a non-white or non-middle classed person in a position of respect and power - unless we count Hagrid, who is made less threatening by "virtue" of reduced intelligence and competence. The upper class is feared too, for they are Slytherin, apparently born to become evil, children that are death-eaters in the making. When we look at word associations, "Sirius Black" sounds similar to "serious black," and the word associations with his character all go downhill from there. And in all of this our conundrum is that the author is stoically anti-racist and a public bastion of fairness in society. And so let this be a lesson to all writers, to examine the visual and word associations of their work, puns included, for all of us, even our very best, live in the same poisoned societies.
Replacing key workers with immune workers in the pandemic required the removing of the monetary system, for only when people worked for love and all had equal access to food, shelter and other necessities could the program realistically be successful. For the world it was their "Highwayman" moment, choosing between their money system and their lives.
In the baking competition the chefs were flown into hunger stricken areas to cook for the needy. It was the first competition ever in which we could say there were winners on every side. What was interesting to see, was the nervousness there was at the start was gone by the finish, that so many of the chefs asked to stay on, to work alongside locals, transforming these societies as their life's work.
The melancholy gives away the exit even as it pretends it isn't there, softly calling me away from all that brings real joy. It tells me that I can't ask for a hug, reach for the sunshine, or take a walk among the soft hymn of trees, hearing how the wind plays in the leaves.
Tears rolled down, wetting every part of her cheek. Her eyes pleaded for Succor and help, albeit that she knew no one was coming. There was only darkness as her own demons haunted and strangled her. She was suffocating. In the pain of abandonment she almost forgot how to feel. She desired amnesia so that all this suffering could fade away, fade and allow memories of laughter to soothe her, to restore peace in her life.
The first thing you'd see is a typical honors kid - large dark eyes behind blue rimmed glasses, holding all the bookish knowledge. The girl's curious eyes asking for more, conflicted with the tight smile silently begging to be left alone.
She'd wear her dark straight hair up in a ponytail, with a pink baseball hat. With the pink sports backpack, she'd deceive anyone. But her scrawny figure in an over-sized men's sweatshirt, underneath a denim shirt from Goodwill, with a pair of jeans ripped from overuse - told a different story. So did her punk boots picked from garage sale.
She hid her scars under thick spike bracelets, another piece that did not match with the silver heart locket hanging from an unusually long necklace.
Even with all the pieces roughly glued together, she had yet to find out which was her real face.
The spoon was a blessed aged silver, its artistic touches rendered all the warmer by the deepening black.
He looked at me and smiled. I nodded in acknowledgement, my head against the doorframe and my arms folded.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m in a bad mood”.
I didn’t look at him to see his reaction; frankly I didn’t care. But then I felt him move closer and pick something out of my hair, sliding it down the strand slowly and carefully. I didn’t know what it was, possibly blossom; it was early spring. But in that moment I suddenly felt different, it was a sensitive act. Normally he or any other boy would grunt, “You’ve got something in your hair”.
This was different; it was an attentive side I hadn’t seen before.
I ache when I see you smile.
I want it to be directed towards me. For me. Because of me. I want to bring you joy; be the source of those lit eyes and dimpled cheeks. I watch you bring so much happiness to those around you. Feel the warmth you’ve given me.
You show me how to find beauty in a cruel world.
You try so hard to do so well. You worked hard. You fought for every step; even if it wasn’t always in the right direction. You wanted to fly and now you’re soaring. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid you’ll crash. That I’ll have to watch it happen. I ache to think there’s no way for me to help if you do.
I still watch you.
Sometimes it becomes a source of guilt. If I have no place in your life, why do I keep following you like this? If you noticed, I’m scared what you’d think of me. I've never been heartbroken before. For that I’m sometimes glad I know you won’t.
We’ll never meet. That’s probably a good thing.
If we met, if we spoke; what would you think of me? That’s what scares me the most. Sometimes I’m left wondering if it’s better we don’t meet. Maybe it would be better if I let you fade from my life, back out of it like you were never there.
But I can’t let go.
Did you ever read the words I did, the ones a child hasn’t forgotten? ‘Kindred spirits’. They make me think of you. Is that truth or my wish? My instinct is that it’s true. But in the same thought I know we wouldn’t agree. The same thoughts or feeling but with a different approach?
I want to be there. I write late into the night because of how much I do. I want to hold your hand. To dry your tears. To take the pain and anger I know you hide. Yet here I sit typing without aim, watching through a screen. To develop an unattainable desire wasn’t wise. I knew it when I started. But we keep moving. Has it been two years already?
The ache won’t fade.
Liberty and coercion are mutually exclusive, as are love and fear.
I would dedicate my every song to you, think about you even when I would be dreaming. I wanted you all to myself. This was neither love nor obsession; it was the fear of losing you, losing you forever. This fear of mine is what brought us together and now I am afraid that this fear is also going to the one to make us fall apart from each other. Just the thoughts of being away from makes me quiver; I hope you never leave me alone because then this fear will turn into hatred and abhorrence.
She's only five years old and unaffected by death. A little innocent light with so much joy. But that will soon change and I hate it.
"Hey, why are they burying Aunty Carla? She can't bake those yummy cookies in the ground! Stop!" she screams. The people who weren't already crying allowed tears to drip down their faces. "Stop it!" She screams, tears streaming down her face.
Unexpectedly, Levi bends down and hugs Dina. "Dina, she's going to sleep." Levi whispers, "Don't be so loud or you'll wake her." Dina cuddles Levi and wails. He strokes her hair and her back lovingly. That just overpowers me. I start crying loudly causing a chain reaction in the small group. Soon everyone who loved Carla are sobbing uncontrollably.
I walk up to the makeshift stage and begin my little speech, "Mam was kind and didn't hesitate to help someone in need. Her helpful spirit got her in trouble a few times but I don't think she ever regretted it. I-"I pause clearing my throat from the tears, "I won't ever let her out my heart, she will stay in here in peace. I love you, Mam." I place my hand on my heart. AOT SALUTE. My tears soaking the clothes I'm wearing.
"Don't cry Eren! Aunty Carla is just asleep," she cries trying to make me happier. I give her a sad smile and nod while walking off the 'stage'.
Slowly her coffin gets lowered into the hole. The closest relatives take turns with the spade, covering her inch by inch with dirt.
Bye Mam. I will miss you...