Dr. King’s Rabbinical Commentary Poster, Novel Writing, & What Do You Remember?

This famous speech made by Dr. King, treated as a sacred text: MLK3speechHillelCommentaryStudy  was what, among other things, inspired me to write my first practice novel.  To paraphrase a recently retired Park Service Ranger,  what gets remembered is often a function of who’s in the room.

That is why everyone, I feel, should write an autobiography and/or a novel, as I call for the Serving Adults and other volunteers to help with, in Phase IV of #ProjectDoBetter.

My first practice work, an unreadable Biblical Science Fiction/Fantasy novel, Creator Friend or Foe: Beginnings,  can be available, if anyone wants to torture themselves with it, but I recommend my second practice novel, instead, as more readable: Hubris and Hemlock.

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, La Casa De Papel/Money Heist, & Lupin & Hakan: Muhafiz/The Protector Reviews

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Plans, & Historical Fiction Serial Stories

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Meddling With Archangels

  I wrote the short story   “Think Before Meddling With Archangels “ (how I wish I’d thought to shorten that title earlier!) as a completion of the initial scene Angels and Clay Blobs that I started back in 2012, and finally posted in 2014.  In between these two versions, I went through a couple of earlier (one with a name I liked, but feared might catch some flack, so changed it…) versions before finally posting TBMWA, which was my first, and so far only,  entry for a story contest, this one based on rational decision-making narrative.

       The initial scene of Angels and Clay Blobs actually kicked off my very first NaNo novel, Creator: Friend or Foe, which, after 7 drafts, will die a quiet death like every first practice novel.  Hubris and Hemlock, my second NaNo novel, is actually deserving of the title, having a plot!

🙂

I look forward to your thoughts on the writing process.

Shira

Action Items:

1.) What are your thoughts on using story to build new tools for our society?

2.) Share your thoughts on how this idea may help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.

4.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

Dear Readers, ideas on learning, especially multiple #LanguageLearning, on-going education and empathy-building, to #EndPoverty, #EndHomelessness,  #EndMoneyBail & achieve freedom for All HumanKind? 

Support our key #PublicDomainInfrastructure  & #StopSmoking at least for CCOVID-19:
1. #PublicLibraries,
2. #ProBono legal aid and Education,
3. #UniversalHealthCare, and
4. good #publictransport
Read, Write

-we can learn from the past Stayed on Freedom’s Call for free,

        by Teaching and Learning (Lesson Plans offline) in the present, to

                     help us all  Do Better to build a kinder and safer future for all of us…

 

Peace     ! שָׁלוֹם

Shira Destinie

the year, 2021 CE = year 12021 HE

(Online pdfs of 5 month GED lesson 15 of 67 plans…), and

Babylon 5 review posts, from a Ranger’s PoV: how story inspires learning…)

Stayed on Freedom’s Call
(free: https://archive.org/details/StayedOnF…)
includes two ‘imagination-rich’ walking tours, with songs, of Washington, DC. New interviews and research are woven into stories of old struggles shared by both the Jewish and African-American communities in the capital city.

Shared histories are explored from a new perspective of cultural parallels and parallel institution-building which brought the two communities together culturally and historically.

Please leave a review, if you can, on the GoodReads page.

Shira 

What about Noah’s wife, and languages for empathy

This week’s Torah portion, called a Parashah, is the 2nd portion of the cycle, Parashat Noach and reminded me of a story I wrote, in a couple of different versions, a few years ago based on a question about some of those who stayed behind, in the Great Flood story. This image, btw, is an Islamic image of Noah’s Ark, which I found interesting.

—

Waves lapped at her breasts, the cold water raising goose bumps on her clammy chilled flesh. The matron shivered, lifting her head, drawing a deep breath from her belly, and pushing the words out with her diaphragm:

“Soon and very soon

we are going to see the King”

the others joined in, linking arms,

“Soon and very soon

we are going to see the King”

Was she seeing that right?

“What are they doing singing?!” tears stung her face as Naamah bellowed

“Get them in here, son! Now! Drag them by their idiotic hair if you have to, but get them in this boat! What do they think they are doing?! They …”

Her words were drowned out by her friend’s next call,

“No more crying!”

The others, lifting their voices above the waves, responded:

“No more crying there, for

we are going to see the king”

Naamah lunged at the railing, one foot already hooked over the side, as Shem and Yapeth dragged her by each arm, her third son linking his hands around her struggling waist, dragging her back inside as her husband slammed the door, lowering the massive bar, enclosing them all in darkness, muffling the cries outside the arc.

At last, when she her breath returned, over the already stifling stench of the animals,

“She told me, but I could not stop her. Demanding an audience, she said.”

All four men stared at her. What?

“An audience with the One who decreed this flood. Protesting the lack of input in this decision.”

“What a hell of a way to protest. They aren’t gong to get very far.”

…

ShiraDest.

Originally drafted in 12014 H.E. (Holocene Era)

AIso, is it still true, that empathy makes us stronger, not weaker?

Octavia Butler dealt with that question, too, in her last novel (I think), Parable of the Talents.

  More on my continuing striving with empathy next time, friends:

  Nos vemos!      ! שָׁלוֹם

Action Items in support of literacy and hope that you can take right now:

1.) Search for two different sources to translate the word “rest”  into both Spanish and Hebrew.

2.) Share them with us in the comments, here, please.  (Anyone notice them in this story??)

3.) Share your thoughts on how you like each of the sources you found,  perhaps as an update on your GoodReads reading,

4.) Write a blog post or tweet that uses a Hebrew word, tells a good story, and makes a difference. I’m working on that through my historical fantasy #WiP, #WhoByFireIWill. Once published, donate one or more copies to your local public library, as I intend to do.

5.)  Can someone tell me why half of this is in block and half is in free format, and refuses to keep my formatting in the first half of the post, which has put itself into the new block editing format?  This is just bizzare.

Dear Readers, any additional ideas toward learning, especially multiple #LanguageLearning as part of on-going education and empathy-building, to #EndPoverty, #EndHomelessness,  #EndMoneyBail & achieve freedom for All HumanKind? 

Support our key #PublicDomainInfrastructure  & #StopSmoking for CCOVID-19:
1. #PublicLibraries,
2. #ProBono legal aid and Education,
3. #UniversalHealthCare, and
4. good #publictransport

Read, Write

-we can learn from the past Stayed on Freedom’s Call for free,

     by Teaching and Learning (Lesson Plans offline) in the present, to

           help build a kinder future: Baby Acres: a Vision of a Better World

(Online pdfs of 5 month GED lesson 5 of 67 plans), and

Babylon 5 review posts, how story inspires learning…

Peace     ! שָׁלוֹם

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

the year, 2021 CE = year 12021 HE

Stayed on Freedom’s Call
(free: https://archive.org/details/StayedOnF…)
includes two ‘imagination-rich’ walking tours, with songs, of Washington, DC. New interviews and research are woven into stories of old struggles shared by both the Jewish and African-American communities in the capital city.

Shared histories are explored from a new perspective of cultural parallels and parallel institution-building which brought the two communities together culturally and historically.

Please leave a review, if you can, on the GoodReads page.

Shira Destinie Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Thoughts on a new short short series on Sundays

It is interesting to me how a story can grab you, or maybe the characters in a story grab you, and refuse to let you go until you’ve told their story.  That is what has happened since this previous Sunday, and the day that began with a bad dream, has ended this week with hope.  I guess that is what stories are supposed to do, no?

The series will be tagged Ann&Anna, although I can’t get that ampersand symbol to take as part of the tag on WordPress.  Some of this comes out of my own family history, but  I hope that we will all be able  enjoy it.  Ann and Anna, Number 1, posted back on Sunday.  Number 2 will be this coming Sunday.

And, Dear Readers, I also hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Action Items:

1.) Please share your thoughts on using history, even painful history, to “build back better” as we say, now?

2.)  Share your thoughts on how continuing empathy-building cooperation might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.

3.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan: Muhafiz/Protector,  Lupin, or La Casa de Papel/Money Heist Reviews

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction Writing

Thoughtful Readers, if you are on Twitter, please consider following   #Project Do Better  on Twitter.

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

It is interesting to me how a story can grab you, or maybe the characters in a story grab you, and refuse to let you go until you’ve told their story.  That is what has happened since this previous Sunday, and the day that began with a bad dream, has ended this week with hope.  I guess that is what stories are supposed to do, no?

The series will be tagged Ann&Anna, although I can’t get that ampersand symbol to take as part of the tag on WordPress.  Some of this comes out of my own family history, but  I hope that we will all be able  enjoy it.  Ann and Anna, Number 1, posted back on Sunday.  Number 2 will be this coming Sunday.

And, Dear Readers, I also hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Action Items:

1.) Please share your thoughts on using history, even painful history, to “build back better” as we say, now?

2.)  Share your thoughts on how continuing empathy-building cooperation might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.

3.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses those thoughts.

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan: Muhafiz/Protector,  Lupin, or La Casa de Papel/Money Heist Reviews

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction Writing

Thoughtful Readers, if you are on Twitter, please consider following   #Project Do Better  on Twitter.

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

 

Peace     ! שָׁלוֹם

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

the year, 2021 CE = year 12021 HE

(Online pdfs of 5 month GED lesson 5 of 67 plans…), and

Babylon 5 review posts, how story inspires learning…)

 

Shira Destinie Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Some dreams are best forgotten? Ann & Anna: Part 1

This morning’s dream did not turn out well, but at least in story, we can give a different, more hopeful ending, right? —

“There’s that fancy!  We got all three!”

           I froze.  Not again.

           Tremors and nausea struggled for dominance, as I wrapped my arms around my belly.  The stench from the canal didn’t help.  The familiar pain again, as I clamped all of my muscles tight.  I could hear feet running toward me in the gathering darkness, even as I stood stock still, knowing all was lost.

           My friends had already fled.   Dropped their baskets and foolishly run along the canal, passing right in front of the President’s House.  I could hear their short strides crossing the road, heavy booted feet pounding after them.  That’d be Mary screaming.  They told us to wait here, to stay together, just present our papers if we were stopped.  But who can blame her.  Mary never really wanted to run.  Just couldn’t be parted with us both.  So this is our fault.

My fault.

            I knew they would know.  Those Free Papers might do for a field hand, but never for a fancy.  The Senator would want his fancy back.  He would never let me go.  But Mary and Sal were going, and I had no future, anyway.  Little Sal was determined, and Mary would never let her go alone.  I couldn’t blame her.

            More screams, this time, the voice of little Sal.  They were closer, now, and the sound of more Constables, shouting, was joined by the rattling of a cart, moving fast enough to cover the sound of the horses hooves pulling our doom closer.  My bowels threatened to spill over, watery humiliation gurgling as I clamped down tighter, recalling what had happened the last time.

              Not to me, of course.  Never.  No marks could be made upon the Senator’s favorite fancy.  But others could suffer, and to punish me, to show me never to run again, others had been made to pay for my mistakes.  Even killed, to be sure that I would know, never leave again.  Mary had explained it, as I wept for them:

“You know why they make us wear these fine dresses.  Why they whip them, and not you.  These white men, they want us because we look like ladies.”

            I had shaken my head at her, not wanting to believe that I was part of the game.  A willing part, as long as I let him touch me.

“But Mary, we are still darkies.  We are not white, that much is clear.”

“Oh, it is clear, honey.  Our light skin lets them dress us up, lets them pretend that we are white women.  What they want, but what they cannot have, they take from us.”

               A twig snapped near me.  Someone was approaching, slowly, carefully.  They had orders, we knew, not to damage us.  It was our beauty that made us so prized on the auction block, often selling for more than a valuable field hand.  Selling that beauty which had no good use.  That beauty which had caused so much pain, and even death.

            I unlaced the top of my bodice.  My beauty would no longer be used for evil.

             This time, no one would die for my weakness.  I pulled my embroidery scissors out of my basket, opening the blades as I found the longest vein on my left arm, and glanced at my right.  For once, it was good to have such light skin.  I can see where the veins run from wrist to elbow.  I’ve looked so often I had them memorized.  No other slave will die because of me, be whipped to spare my flesh, to teach us all not to run.  Only my blood will flow, this time.  I pressed the open blade into my wrist, the other blade biting into my right hand fingers, drawing down along the tendon, welcoming the pain here, instead of down there.  This pain tells me, as I dig deeper, toward my elbow, that I have not submitted.  This pain will wash away my shame, at last.  And no one else will suffer for me.

Not again.

                 A thin stream of blood began to drip from my left arm.  Not enough.  I held up my right arm, letting the sewing basket slide down to my shoulder, and pressed the blade into my right wrist.  Now the open scissors bit into my left hand fingers, but I could almost not feel them, anymore.  By now, it was too dark to see any veins, so I’d just have to use the tendons as a guide, and pull that blade as hard as I could down toward my elbow, toward where my sewing basket hung on my shoulder, until I could dig no deeper.

                Before the open scissor blade could bite into my flesh, a slender dark hand wrapped itself around mine…

—

Ann & Anna, Part 2 (“Hope”)  continues here … Shira

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan:Muhafiz/The Protector, Lupin, & La Casa de Papel (Money Heist) and other show or film Reviews…

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or My Long Term Nonfiction Writing and Historical Fiction prose

Thoughtful Readers,  please consider    #ProjectDoBetter.

Shira Destinie Jones’ work  is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

His Jaw

 

 

What had I just done?  It was as if I was awakening from a bad dream, but the bad dream was still there, looking at me in what seemed to be stunned silence.  I was still more stunned.

 

-I guess you really were mad.

 

As the look on his face began to change, the full implications of what I’d just done began to dawn on me.  My stomach churned with the knowledge that there would be hell to pay for that punch, even if he had been teaching me to throw them, just like that.  Telling me how soft I was, how I needed to learn to fight, not let the kids at school walk all over me.

 

He’d taught me to block, and to throw a punch, demanding that I learn to be harsh, not to care if I knocked someone down, not to care how that person might get hurt.

 

Then, after a phone call from a boy, he’d demanded to know who it was, what the boy had wanted.  When I told him that I’d had to push off the boy’s attempt to kiss me, he’d asked me something, moving closer.  My grandmother was out of the house, out shopping.  I felt that warning pain in my gut, and I had tried to move away.  This man, my step grandfather, was my guardian, but not my kin, not safe.  I wasn’t fast enough.

 

He put out a hand, then the other, pulled me toward him, pressing his lips against mine.  I had twisted and blocked, just like he’d taught me, then backed away, shaking in my disgust, and he had laughed, saying I couldn’t be angry.  Just like my mother had laughed, after she’d told me not to tell, so long ago.  Then, it came out of no where.

 

He had been teaching me, and taunting me.

 

-Hit harder, don’t be such a sissy.

 

Teaching me to throw a decent punch, then a block, and then another punch.  He’d taught me how to throw a good punch, for a girl.  A hard punch, alright.

 

 

But at his shoulder, not his jaw.

 

 

 

–

 

Action Prompts:  

1.) How can we protect kids from adults, especially those in their own families?

2.)  Do you think that Project Do Better’s Phase IV (described in chapters 5 and 10 of the book) might help?

 

Dear Readers, ideas on learning, especially multiple #LanguageLearning, on-going education and empathy-building, to #EndPoverty, #EndHomelessness,  #EndMoneyBail & achieve freedom for All HumanKind? 

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, La Casa De Papel/Money Heist, & Lupin & Hakan: Muhafiz/The Protector Reviews

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Plans, & Historical Fiction Serial Stories

Thoughtful Readers, if you are on Twitter, please consider following   #Project Do Better  on Twitter.

Shira

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

 

Punishment

    This short is based on a visual, sort of a daydream, that has been with me since I was about 12 years old:

–

 

      I caught up with him between the outer fence and the inner fence, just as he started to climb.  He turned on me, not a greasy black hair of his head out of place.  Mine was still a little slicked back, but I could feel that cow lick flopping around.  His smile told me he could see it, too, and was just about to make another smart ass joke.   That’s ok, I’ll have my knife in your gut before you open your mouth.  Let’s see what you have to say, then, sucker.    I flipped open my switch blade right while he was opening his, but I was faster.

 

I stuck him in the ribs just as he was starting his lunge.  He really must have thought he was going to feint and duck me.  Then his foot had slipped on a rock, and left him open.  That look of surprise on his face was priceless.

 

My own little bit of luck didn’t last too long, though.  I felt the bite of his blade stabbing up through the gap in my leather jacket, and I knew then that I had fucked up, too.  He’d caught me with his upper cut, just as he was starting to pass out.  The light was already going out of his eyes, but that wet warm feeling spreading faster than the pain in my chest told me that I’d not be too far behind him.  Usually they say that after a knife fight, one goes to the hospital and one goes to the morgue, but it looked like it would be both of us on the slab, this time.

 

I fell down right where he did, looking straight into his still open but lifeless eyes, and I knew then that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.  A mistake I was bound to pay for, and pretty damned soon.

 

They  say that some people believe we come back in the next life as punishment for things we did back in this life.  I tried to pray for forgiveness, but my last thoughts were stuck on that next lifetime:

 

With my luck, I’ll probably be reborn as a girl.

Or even worse … a colored girl.

 

–

 

Action Items:  

1.) How have you imagined a past or future lifetime, if ever?

 

(update: maybe the title ought to have been something like Between Fences??)

 

*****************

Click here to read, if you like:

B5, Hakan: Muhafiz/The Protector, Sihirli Annem, Lupin, or La Casa de Papel/Money Heist Reviews

Holistic College Algebra & GED/High School Lesson Plans,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction Writing

Thoughtful Readers, please consider reading about #ProjectDoBetter.

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

Shira Destinie Jones’ work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Minbari Mondays, Mora’dum, and Cursing Names

There is another interruption in the sending of our fictional letter (reviewing each film and episode of Babylon 5) that I receive each week from Ranger Mayann.

Hopefully, reports from The Great Machine on Epsilon 3 will resume soon. Meanwhile, here is a short, based on the Ranger training use of terror, as it could be applied here on earth:

–

        The punishment will be worth it.

        If any technology sufficiently advanced appeared to be magic, so much the better for this human, harming others of his kind with no thought even for himself.  The Mora‘dum would be perfect, to set an example.

    As the flame met the paper, the man’s hands began to burn.  His screams were muffled by the bands that began to wind more tightly around his face.  That had been a gift from a passing TechnoMage, insulted by this human’s refusal to wear a mask for the safety of his fellow human beings during a plague.   These two pieces of “magic” would serve well with this group of humans, enthralled as they were by their theories of magic everywhere.  Let them speculate on the magic behind this punishment.  Let them learn.

   The screams grew louder as the cigarette tore through the man’s arm, leaving a track of raw flesh where a hand and wrist had been. 

Good, the wound was being cauterized. 

Efficient.

Now, the only remaining task was to stop the human girl who was standing on her balcony, wheezing in pain from the earlier cigarette smoked by this man, from throwing herself off.

–

    I hope that this is interesting, at least, and please, dear Readers, accept my apologies for the lack of polish.  I’m not feeling well, and not resting well, so am not up to par.

Stay safe,

-Shira Destinie

Action Items:

1.)  Share your thoughts on the importance of empathy.

2.) Share your thoughts on how we Human Beings might start to build a more fully inclusive society for all of us, and how we can start to give a damn about each other.

3.) Write a story, post or tweet that uses these thoughts.

Dear Readers, ideas on learning, especially multiple #LanguageLearning, on-going education and empathy-building, to #EndPoverty, #EndHomelessness,  #EndMoneyBail & achieve freedom for All HumanKind?

Support our key #PublicDomainInfrastructure  & #StopSmoking for COVID-19:
1. #PublicLibraries,
2. #ProBono legal aid and Education,
3. #UniversalHealthCare, and
4. good #publictransport
Read, Write, Vote, Teach and Learn (Lesson Plans offline) 

Nih sakh sh’lekk, sleem wa. and my Babylon 5 review posts, if you like Science Fiction, and a proposed Vision on Wondering Wednesdays: Baby Acres/Floors for a kinder world…    

Shira Destinie A. Jones, BsC, MAT, MPhil

our year 2021 CE =  12021 HE

(GED lesson plans: Day 1 … Day 5)

Stayed on Freedom’s Call
(free copies at: https://archive.org/details/StayedOnF…)
includes two ‘imagination-rich’ walking tours, with songs, of Washington, DC. New interviews and research are woven into stories of old struggles shared by both the Jewish and African-American communities in the capital city.

Shared histories are explored from a new perspective of cultural parallels and parallel institution-building which brought the two communities together culturally and historically.

-one can add Stayed on Freedom’s Call via  GoodReads.  Please leave a review, if you can make a bit of time, on the GoodReads page.

Shira Destinie Jones by ShiraDest is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Bad Fairy, Good Fairy?

This is not working as I’d hoped, but does explain why we need more visions of a kinder world:

“

-May the pain you cause my fe rebound thrice or more unto thee, and may you understand why, just before you die.

A malicious laughter tinkled across the canyon, startling Ametis out of a focus that suddenly became embarrasing.  Wheeling around with a sharp curve of a wing, the source of the cackle now revealed itself.  Perhaps taking the form of a peregrine falcon, rather than a starling, would be a good idea right now?  A short pip called the other starlings into formation around Ametis, who was grateful that they had accepted the call of a non-physical.  Ametis, armed with support, heard the laughter became a cough.

-Ahem.  Calling down mortal curses now, are we, good little fairy?

-Protecting my human, you stain on our kind.  And do not refer to me with that term, or I may have to forget myself.

A swirl of dust on the canyon floor began to kick up, just at the source of the sound below.  The air was a better place to call upon Fate, but it was not as safe as being grounded.

-I am no stain, you hypocrite.  I merely encourage the expression of their instincts.

-Encourage the inflicting of pain, you mean.

-That is merely a side effect, and even a beneficial one, over time.  Where would these humans be, without their motivation?

-Not killing each other, for starters, perhaps?  Besides, you have no interest in their well-being, only in watching them suffer.

-Suffer, not suffer, there is no difference.  They will all suffer at some time, and they will all die, having suffered, in any case.  Nothing changes them.

The dust devil on the canyon below became a sand storm, but then an image arose, painted in the ether around Ametis.  Her fe was moving into this plane, again.  The human paid by her fe’s cord-carrier had again put the fe into that place where she was afraid.  If Ametis had had a physical body, that human would have paid dearly, but as it was, all Ametis could do was feel her fe’s fear, pain, and shame.  Feel what her fe was feeling, and promise that this other human, older, stronger, and less fragile, but still mortal, would one day pay for what he was doing to her fe, a mere child of 6.

The sand storm in the canyon below closed in on a small cave.

On that day, the pain will be one, and its name will be one.  And none shall mourn them.  This human, and those who encouraged his evil acts, will understand, and they will regret.

The sand storm finally engulfed the cave, sweeping away all within it.

-Ok, I apologize!  You are…

All of them will regret.  Starting with this one.       “

 

Action Items:  

1.) Search for two different sources to learn about your local foster system’s funding,

2.) Please tell us where your information comes from, and how you know that the sources you found are reliable,

3.) Write a book, story, blog post or tweet that uses your findings, and then, please tell us about it! If you write a book, once it is published please consider donating a copy to your local public library.

Dear Readers, ideas on learning, especially multiple #LanguageLearning, on-going education and empathy-building, to #EndPoverty, #EndHomelessness,  #EndMoneyBail & achieve freedom for All HumanKind? 

Support our key #PublicDomainInfrastructure  &  for heavens sake: please #StopSmoking for CCOVID-19 (or even for good!)!:
1. #PublicLibraries,
2. #ProBono legal aid and Education,
3. #UniversalHealthCare, and
4. good #publictransport
Read, Write -one can add Stayed on Freedom’s Call via this GoodReads button:  ,

Vote, Teach and Learn (PDF Lesson Plans Offline)

and

my Babylon 5 review posts, if you like Science Fiction,

and

a proposed Vision on Wondering Wednesdays: for a kinder world…

   

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil

our year 2021 CE =  12021 HE

(Day 1 … Day 5)

Stayed on Freedom’s Call
(free copies at: https://archive.org/details/StayedOnF…)
includes two ‘imagination-rich’ walking tours, with songs, of Washington, DC. New interviews and research are woven into stories of old struggles shared by both the Jewish and African-American communities in the capital city.

Shared histories are explored from a new perspective of cultural parallels and parallel institution-building which brought the two communities together culturally and historically.

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Shira Destinie Jones by ShiraDest is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Any Landing You Can Walk Away From…

Ok, P. this one’s for you (I hope it’s ok…), and T., too: from my flight scholarship at the 1986 NAI Summer Flight Academy.

“

            “Do you want to fly today, or not?”

 

Since he was putting it that way, what could I say?  He did know this plane better than I did, having flown it twice a day all week, and yes, he was the one with over 1000 hours of flight time.  So, who was I to quote a memorized rule book at him, a decorated combat pilot deigning to teach a snot-nosed teenager how to fly?  And for free, no less.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Then let’s go.”

 

 

I throttled up, taking over officially as Pilot In Command with the ritual nod to my instructor, and announcing my take off to the open air field, even though no one else was in the pattern.  My fellow students were standing back by the open office door, already pointing and starting to make their critiques, no doubt waiting for my first landing of our touch and go sequence to laugh, as usual.  For the only girl in the advanced group, having passed my FAA written didn’t mean I was lucky to get to fly the 172, and didn’t mean they respected my ability to memorize the manuals, or to tutor ground school.  It meant that the guys in the 150s and the 152 got to ask why I could be so smart, and not land the damned plane after 9 hours of flight time.  So, here we went, again.

 

“Turning downwind, I have my intended point of touchdown.”

 

A taciturn nod of the head in that hot and noisy cabin was more than enough to see that the confidence in my landing ability was no better up here than it was down there.  Skidding my turn, yet again, into final approach, I hoped I was judging the distance right.  Flaring at 5 feet was no easy feat when the altimeter is useless from the time you think you’re about to land on the roof of the hangar.  Memorizing two landings manuals and endless discussions of what the sight picture should look like by that point had not helped much, either.  This time I just crabbed into the wind and hoped that the guy standing on the taxiway was close enough to be a good guideline.  Better to flare a bit too close, as long as I got to full stall, than risk bouncing, again.  I’d learned that my own eyes were simply not trustworthy, and so I had to rely on that famous photographic memory from the last time I got yelled at for flaring too high.  Since it always looked like we were about to dig a big hole in the ground, I figured someone would yell at me if I waited too long.

 

“Take off again.”

 

Calling in our 4th touch and go, I hoped no one else was waiting for lunch while I logged an extra few minutes of flying time.  The embarrassment of me not soloing would be too much to bear for those who’d put me in this advanced group, so I sent a prayer that my next landing would be a perfect one.  As I rotated and looked ahead toward our emergency landing point, I noticed that things were finally nice and peaceful.  We were only about 300 feet off of the ground, and it was nice and quiet.  Then it hit me.

 

It was quiet because the engine had died.

 

I looked down and decided that we couldn’t possibly land, with the little bit of runway remaining below us, but we didn’t have enough altitude to clear those trees, let alone make it to our emergency landing spot.  Just as I was deciding that it was time to call in a Mayday and say my last prayers, the normally slow moving man to my right shot a glance to either side, then shoved the yoke as far forward as it would go.  While my stomach protested as our seat belts held our heads on, I added my weight to his, pushing our 172 back down to the runway, and wondering just how many inches we would have, if we could flare in time.  He waited longer than I’d imagined possible, and then yanked the yoke back all the way to our seats.  Surprised to see our 172 actually responding to controls, I was shocked when we slammed into the ground, and merely rolled as if landing hot.  Evidently, our Cessna did not understand that we were not meant to be back on the runway yet, and obligingly landed just where it was told.  But it did not stop when we told it to.  Two sets of feet pressing desperately against separate brake pedals did nothing to slow our approach toward the large brier patch off the end of the runway.  We kept pressing, slowing down, and then as if tired of all the exertion, the brakes simply gave out.  As we rolled freely forward, feeling the front gear banging into every bush and stump, I called in a “Pan” to the office, letting everyone know that we’d made it to the ground safely, and expected to be able to walk away from this landing, even if our only 172 might need a tow.

 

“What happened?  Didn’t you do a run-up?”

 

“I did, but he said to fly anyway.”

 

“What?”

 

“I got a 200 rpm drop on the left magneto, and a 300 rpm drop on the right, but with both mags it ran fine, and he said that it was just like that, and told me to take off!”

 

“You idiot, girl, you know you should have walked away!”

 

“But he was yelling at me!”

 

“Yeah, well how’s that crash landing working out for you?”

 

 

 

 

This flight scholarship might just not be worth all that, after all, huh?”

 

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Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

 

 

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