Review of Isabel Moctezuma, by Eugenio Aguirre

      Click  for the English review, below: here …

Me fui dificil leer este libro por lado del idioma y por lado emocional. Primeramente, la mescla de idiomas me dificultô la lectura, y también no me dî cuenta de que Cortés y Maliche era la misma persona, ya que creî que era la Malintzin la Malinche, y también los cambios entre el tuteo y voceo me confundî. La segunada dificultad para mi era las luchas y las angustias como lectora, sabiendo lo que iba a pasar, y aun peor, aprendiendo que tan bella era la cultura Méxica que no solamente quedô destruida, sino también pervertido por mentira. Ni hablar de los violaciones, que el autor ha logrado hacerse sentir pero con un poco de retiro que lo hace sentir si fuera ahî misma, pero alejandose emocionalmente, como pasa a las victimas. El autor hace muy buen trabajo de mostrarnos como se siente, también, una persona cuando està pasando por un periodo un poco como es estres post-traumatico, despues de haber perdido un cercano, desde el interior de la mente de esta persona quien ha quedado atrapado dentro de su propio mente sin poder responder a nada. Muy bien hecho, aunque da miedo, por muchos lados.

English:

This book was difficult to read both linguistically and emotionally. First, the mixture of modern Mexican Spanish, in which the first person narrator speaks, intertwined with alot of words in Nahuatl, which were interesting but very difficult to read, and for me, interrupted the flow of the narration, although I liked the inline translation into modern Spanish, but combined with sudden switches into old Castilian, and then at the end, even Cortés (whom I didn’t realize for quite a while was actually the same person as Malinche, whom I’d thought to be the slave Malintzin) using the tu form as well as the vos, was confusing, but maybe not so much to Mexican readers.
Second, the awful struggle to face and fight the Spaniards, with the anguish of the characters knowing that their world would not only be destroyed, but erased, and for the readers, the anguish of knowing that such a beautiful culture has been not only erased, but deliberately misrepresented, was gut-wrenching. Not to even speak of all of the rapes, which the author somehow manages to describe physically, yet almost gloss over in terms of immediate emotional content: yes, we see the effects later, but during the events, we get an expertly distanced view, almost as if the reader is experiencing the horror of the violation, and self-distancing, as often happens to victims. The author does a very good job, also, of portraying the protagonist as experiencing a sort of PTSD at the death of a close loved one, and showing what it is like from the inside of the mind of one who is trapped inside her mind, unable to respond. Very well done, and appropriately disturbing on many levels.

I find it horrible that Alvarado has his name on so many Transit centers and streets Etc in New Mexico and also throughout the Southwest I presume.”

March 13, 2018 –

page 73

14.72%”interesting corrective to the Spanish historical record about the death of Montezuma”

page 158

31.85% “Qué bonita qué dice :
“El olor de cada flor es su canto … es más generoso que un beso porque no nos exige nada a cambio””

 “Además, feas y malolientes!” exactly!!”

 nuevos amos nuevas leyes Terribles
“…la pena de muerte no sólo para quien lo pide sino también para la parte era la curandera que lo provoca.”

horrible new laws particularly for women after the conquest”

  Qué bonita canción , la suya… Forgot to mention the Death Song, much like that of the Tsalagi (Cherokkee), and I’ve seen allegations that the ‘peripheral’ tribes up north got many customs by influence from the powerful empires to the south, which makes sense, though somehow hurts my sense of pride on behalf of the idea that peoples can come up with similar ideas independently.

Read, Write, Dream, Walk !

#PublicDomainInfrastructure as Poverty Abolition is Phase I of Project Do Better

 

We can definitely Do Better…

ShiraDest
original version of this post initially published on March 23rd, 12018 HE (human or holocene era…)

Shira

Action Items:

1.) Share your thoughts, please.

2.) Write a story, post or comment that uses those thoughts.

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

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 (including Ann & Anna…)

Thoughtful Readers, please consider reading about #ProjectDoBetter.  This work is my personal way (as opposed to founding the Project, overall) of contributing to building tools that can help increase empathy and compassion in our world.  Story, as part of how we see our world, helps us make sense of and define our actions in this world.  And remember how important story is also as part of this project. Let’s Do Better.

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

ShiraDest

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

Thursday Stories -La Casa de Papel (Money Heist) p3e7: Traumatic “Vacacciones…”

   This is a good way, through story, to show the harm done to all of society when any person is tortured, especially by a government:  

    He’s back with the band!  But not quite all in one piece…    

Oh, no, not him again!!

    Last  week  was Part 3, ep : Thoughtless Commentary Thursdays -La Casa de Papel (Money Heist) Part 3, ep. 6: “Todo Insignificante” !!  compared to what we know, now…   

Photo by Ana Maria on Pexels.com

Next week is: La Casa de Papel (Money Heist) P3e8: “Astray” & A Note on Believability ;

  “Somos la resistencia.”   Ahora, si…

   “We are the Resistance.”     Now, yes…

Shira  

Action Prompts:

1.)  Share your thoughts on how we can be part of the Peaceful Resistance…

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

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

Click here to read, if you like:

Science Fiction/Fantasy Shows,  Lupin, or Money Heist

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction

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

Shira

Review: Purgatoire Des Innocents, Empathy for Heroic Thieves, and Speaking for Those Who Cannot Speak

Purgatoire des innocents by Karine Giébel
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

(English after French…)

Honte d’avoir survécu, haine contre soi même de n’avoir pas su se protéger, envie abandonner. Effrayant, vachement important à lire.

-Addendum:  This book features an unlikely pair of heroes:  two brothers who go from jewelry theft to saving a young girl’s life, at their own horrific expense, as they repair their sins by stopping an even worse person (mostly) from killing an innocent.  But their suffering is not quite enough for a system that lacks empathy.  Here is the original review:

Guilt for surviving, self-hated for being unable to protect yourself, just wanting to give up. Gut-wrenching, horrifically important to read.

Shira HoloceneHuman Era Destinie
2 Septembre, 12015 èH (HE: Universal Holocene Calendar)

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

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, please consider reading about #ProjectDoBetter.

Shira

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

Narrative Nonfiction: Some Beatings are Worth Taking, Brolly Lady, aka Standing in the Gap…

      …  Memories of a “Brolly Lady” …

—

     There it was again.  I knew that sound.

“Oy, they’re having a fight down there!”

     That was what Mona thought.  I knew better.  That was an old sound, from a lifetime ago.  One I thought I’d finally escaped.   I should have known better.

     I looked out the window, counting five men holding smart phones up toward the screams.  Then my feet moved of their own accord.  It was only from hearing a muffled shout as the door slammed behind me that I knew I’d left the flat.  The rain had just ended, and the pavement was still wet.  My feet pulled me to the source of that sound.  Not the shouting, not the screaming, but the one I remembered so deeply that it still hid under the table with my inner child.  The sound of a head hitting a wall.

     There it was again, but this time, I could see them.  Both of them.  The woman’s head sounded like a watermelon when she slammed against the wall, sliding down those slimy bricks to finish crumpled on the filthy paving stones.  Her eyes were open wide, looking stunned and frightened, as a giant advanced on her from the ten or fifteen feet from where he’d launched her.  My stomach churned as the pain of that impact coursed through my own body, as if I had been the one tossed like a sack of rice into that wall.

     Looking at the giant, I wanted to flee, abandon this woman to her fate.  But my feet had a will of their own, carrying me right into the one spot where I didn’t want to be:  about 5 steps between each of them.

     I realized that I’d carried an old umbrella with me out the door.  At least those Kung Fu lessons had had one result: they kept me from rushing in where angels feared to tread entirely unarmed.  Then again, my next thought was that this flimsy brolly was more like a liability against that big drunk guy.  I took a second of comfort in hoping that as a foreign PhD student, at least the NHS would cover my hospital stay if I didn’t manage to duck fast enough.

“Move!”

     I flinched as the sound wave from the giant’s lips struck me.  It felt just like the impact of furniture breaking against the wall that night.  When the giant stepped closer to me, my feet moved me back the same step, but my body refused to budge.  That brolly, I now realized, was balanced in my left hand behind me, just like a short staff.  My stomach had turned into a solid ball, no longer churning.  As I saw him look at me, the giant’s eyes suddenly grew wider.  If he hits me, it is going to hurt.  But then why did he seem to be afraid of me?

“Move!”

“No.”

     Who said that?  Oh, wait, that was my voice.  So why did the giant look confused?

“Thank you.”

     I risked a glance backward.  That sobbing voice had come from behind me, as the woman I was foolishly blocking wept, her tears mingling with the rain on the wall as she’d stared up at me.

Focusing on the giant as I’d learned to do in so many sparring classes, I drew a deep breath, preparing.  But the giant stood frozen himself, staring at me with some odd drunken mixture of contempt and fear.  Both were clearly written in his face, as well as the frustration of being denied another chance to strike the woman on the ground behind me.  What was he waiting for?

“You prick.”

     He was treating me like a man?  He really must be drunk.   Then I realized that I’d dropped into an automatic fighting stance.  He wasn’t that drunk, then.

“Ok, but you should be ashamed of yourself.”

     As those words tore themselves from my throat, I began to tremble so violently that I thought I’d begin crying like the woman at my back.  The giant looked so confused that I could practically see the gears turning in his drink-addled mind.  Then, a tall woman stepped between us, her back to me, placing a hand flat upon the center of the giant’s chest.   I found myself letting out the breath I’d not known I was holding, and heard movement behind me.

     I turned to see the two young bar girls helping the woman, finally, up off of the pavement, and taking her inside the pub.  As I looked back at the giant, he had backed away, the tall woman’s arm guiding him to the curb.

     I stood straight, now in tears myself from the relief, and from the shock.  I was still four years old, still hiding under the table, while furniture still shattered, as my mother screamed in the other room.  But this time, I had not stayed hidden under the table.

     This time, I had come out to help.

     Lost in these thoughts, I turned down the bar girl’s offer of a drink.  As Mona came over, saying something I couldn’t hear, I wondered where she had been during all of this.  Recalling her nights of coming home drunk, I realized that she had been standing there, 20 feet away, the entire time.  Now I could see her in my mind’s eye, standing off to the side, just watching.  As the five men and two bar girls had stood by and just watched.  

   All standing idly by while…   And all but the young bar girls were bigger than me.  Including my lover, who had let me stand alone.

     Then, I resolved to get her out of my life.  

Because some lovers aren’t worth keeping.

—

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this anecdote may encourage finding ways to prevent domestic violence, how to deal with or prevent C-PTSD, and how to build inclusive thinking.

2.) Write a story, post or comment here that uses those thoughts.

3.)  This was the third time in my life that I felt I was given the same respect, ironically, as a man usually gets.  The first time was at the USNA

after refusing to bilge out voluntarily, and the second time was when I worked in Izmir, during Pesach/Passover at the home of a Sephardic family who (after seeing in shul that I knew everything about the service, as people commented around me in Ladino) treated me as a man 

 during the Seder.   Links to both of these narratives are available here.

Fellow Thinkers, have you got ideas on learning, especially multiple LanguageLearning, on-going education and empathy-building, to EndPoverty, EndHomelessness, & achieve freedom for All HumanKind? 

 

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

Click on the ShiraDest site menu above this narrative, please, to read more if you like learning via:

Holistic College Algebra & GED/High School Lesson Plans,

           or 

 Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction Writing

Thoughtful Readers, please consider reading about Project Do Better.

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

Shira

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

Ann and Anna, (serial short story, Part 5): Naming

      …  Parts 4 (Home),  posted on previous Sundays:

   I felt it more than I saw it: Anna was so startled that she nearly fell off of her horse.

“You were named by a what?”

Her whisper was sharp enough to cut through a dry pork chop.  Her amazement cut me to the bone.  It was understandable.  But still.

“I was named by a very old tree.  In The Old Dominion, of course.”

“So, exactly how did that happen, Miss Willow?  Did you hear a great rumbling voice speaking to you from out of the -”

She stopped speaking, giving me a look as if we were at Sunday meeting hearing of Moses and the Burning Bush.  I began to laugh and had to stop myself, fearing that I might endanger our escape with too much mirth.

“I had only just arrived in Virginia, the Senator having bought me from my first master, as far as I know.”

“Do you recall your birth home, or your mother, at all, Miss Willow?

“No, Ma’am, I do not.  Virginia is all I have ever known.  And you?”

“Both of my parents are now free, living in Washington, DC, but my mother was still in her bonds when I was born, and so I must run.”

“That must be very hard, having your parents here and having to leave kith and kin all alone.  How old are you, anyway, Miss Anna?”

“I am about 15 years old, Miss Willow, and you, Ma’am, are still straining to avoid my question almost as hard as old Mary there is straining to get to that grass.  Why don’t we stop for a moment in that little copse of trees up there and have a little respite, as the gentlemen say, to eat and talk a bit?”

The idea was certainly a welcome one, nervous though I was about what I had to tell.  I had no idea how far advanced the night had become, but it felt late, and we were all tired and hungry.

“That is a welcome idea, Miss Anna.”   I leaned in the direction I wanted to go, laying the reins that way, but to my astonishment, old Mary began to wander off in exactly the opposite direction.

“Pull the rein on the side you want her to go.  She got confused because some people use neck-reining, and that was what it felt to her like you just did.”

I followed Anna’s directions, apologizing to old Mary for my inexpert riding.  She didn’t seem to take insult as quickly as our young guide, I was relieved to see.  If we ever got out of this, and if I ever got to see old Mary here, again, up North, I would feed her as many apples and carrots as ever I could.  Sugar would have to be a treat she’d forgo, as all of the cane I knew of was grown and processed by plantations down Natchez way, and I was loath to buy anything that I knew came from the stolen labour of those still in bondage, as I was even now.

We settled in, leaving our horses saddled, but tethered close by and able to graze as we also took some small refreshment.  We had packed water, corn bread, apples, part of which I saved for Mary, and a few carrots.  We dared not risk a fire, but the short rest worked wonders for my tired and aching muscles, unaccustomed as I was to riding.

As it turned out, cold though it was, we were wise not to light any fire.  We’d just gotten our mounts under the shelter of an old bush arbor, as Anna said the old folks used to call them.  It seems that some of the field hands used to know how to bend young trees and saplings into the form of a shelter.  After covering them with the bark of a certain tree, they could make a living hut, round and supple, and reasonably warm, too.  I was surprised to learn how much this young woman knew about living and moving about out of doors.  Having been kept under constant watch in the house, I knew nothing of these things, and despaired of ever being able to learn them.

“Well, I think I will take this carrot over to old Mary-”

“Hush!”

Anna was holding up her hand as she ducked low to the ground, sidling over to take the reins of both our mounts and pulling their heads low as well.  I followed her lead, crouching down against the wall of our little shelter beside her.  All was silence, to my untrained ear.  Then I heard the sound of voices on the trail, some ways distant from us.  They were too far away to make out any words.  I found a dread overtaking me that rooted me to the spot as if that tree had adopted me as one of it’s own.  Even after some minutes, when their voices had passed, born away on the pine breeze, I found myself unable to move.  I also found the pain in my belly nearly overwhelming.  I was barely aware of Anna telling me that all was well again.  My breath, despite having opened my bodice before starting our ride, refused to move in or out of my lungs.  My body simply remained in a paralysis against which I was helpless to act.

“It’s ok, Miss Willow, it’s ok.  Just breathe.  Come on, breathe with me.”

I felt her beside me, stretching my body out, rolling me onto a blanket she must have laid on the floor of our little shelter over the pine needles.  I felt the rhythm of her breathing, her chest somehow directly against mine.  As the air returned to my lungs, I felt a soft pressure against my body, wrapping me in a warmth that made it feel as if it might be safe to be alive.  The warmth spread all along my back, and then into my legs.  I felt myself enveloped in a warm cocoon that made me want to breathe and stretch.  In my ear, a warm softness pressed in, uttering an unending command to keep breathing.

“That’s right, just keep breathing with me.  You’re safe.  We are safe.”

I opened my eyes and saw that we were lying together wrapped in a blanket, Anna’s arms around me in a protective embrace.  I blushed, feeling a carnal sensation that made me ashamed of myself, especially after my previous shameful paralysis.  My face and neck felt damp and irritated.

“Ssshh, sshh, sshh, it’s alright.”

I realized, as I opened my eyes again, that I must have been crying.  Anna’s smoothing of my hair, as a mother comforts her child, only made me feel more ashamed.  I was a burden, nothing more, and would do a favor for all the world if I would only have the strength to end my worthless existence.  My weeping must have gotten even worse, for Anna began to hold my head and rock me back and forth, as one rocks a baby to sleep.  And sleep I did, for a time.  When next I opened my eyes, it seemed that the sun was just about to shine the bright rays of morning upon us.  We still lay curled together, Anna’s hands tangled in my rebelliously curly long hair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

How did she do that?  I hadn’t moved an inch, except to open my eyes.

“How did you know -”

“That you were awake?  Miss Willow, when you are on the road as long as I have been, you learn to notice things.  How are you feeling?”

“Oh, much better, thank you.  Just how long have you been on the road, Miss Anna?”

“Oh, since I was a young’un, I reckon.”

She smiled, a beautiful mischievous smile.  She leaned over, stretching her body fully over mine, gently arching her back so as not to smother me, and reached out for the plate with our leftover apples and cornbread.  I held her up at the waist, trying to be helpful as she held the plate even further out so that our horses could each take an apple.  The feeling of the curves of her body brought feelings back to my remembrance that made me blush again, as I also found my appetite return.

“Are you hungry?”

I looked away, hoping that she had not noticed my blush.

“Oh, yes, thank you.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any butter, and we’ll have to eat it cold.”

“Not to worry, Miss Anna, this morsel of food is like the manna sent from heaven.”

Her smile lit up my day as that pillar of fire must have lit the day of the wandering Israelites.

 We ate, arose and packed our meager belongings, taking pains to be certain that our tiny shelter left no evidence to betray our presence.  As we prepared to leave, and she was helping me mount old Mary,  Anna looked me in the eye:

“That is why you didn’t want to tell me, isn’t it?”

How did she doggon do that?  I could only nod my head.  She had caught me.

“I don’t think you have that tree around here, do you?”

She looked at me so tenderly that I thought my heart must break from it.  She touched my face, just brushing a stray hair aside.

“No, ma’am, we don’t have too many Weeping Willows up this way, not like further south.”

There we were.  I no longer needed to explain.  Relief flooded me, knowing that what became general knowledge before I could even speak had, once again, spoken for itself.

“But let me tell you this:  That particular breed of Willow is one of the strongest trees I know of.  Those trees survive storm, rain, wind, giving shelter to all who pass by.  They are useful, Miss Willow.”

I must have given her a baleful look, for her eyes firmed up, as she pointed a finger at me:

“And so are you.”

—

 

       This is the continuation scene in my new series  Ann&Anna.  I  hope that this series will move you to learn more ways to help use our history to build new tools.

–

  Part 4 began Names, last Sunday, and Part 6 will finish in Belief next Sunday.

–

I look forward to your thoughts.

Shira

Action Items:

1.) Share your thoughts on how this story may encourage empathy-building cooperation, and might help, or hinder, inclusive thinking.

2.) Write a story, post or comment here that uses those thoughts.

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

For good

1. #PublicLibraries,
2. #ProBono legal aid and Education,
3. #UniversalHealthCare, and
4. good #publictransport

 

 

 

 

Peace     ! שָׁלוֹם

Shira Destinie A. Jones, MPhil, MAT, BSCS

the year, 2021 CE = year 12021 HE

 

 

 

 

Shira 

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

Minbari Mondays, The Long Dark, and, mental health care in outer space

 

“Now what would a guy with everything in the world do with one of those?”

Good question, coming from a homeless combat veteran suffering from nightmares and flashbacks, in response to Garibaldi’s suggestion that he knows some good therapists.  Just before that, Garibaldi tells a young security officer that he knows this “lurker” served in the infantry because, while watching the homeless “lurker” having a nightmare, he tells the young security officer that

“I’ve had that same dream.”

Hence, as the Minbari often reminds us, history matters.  And so does health care.

Nih sakh sh’lekk, sleem wa.

–

 

 

Last week; 

     This was the 5th episode of Season 2, of Ranger Mayann’s letter on the history of the Babylon Project.   

                    Next week…

-Shira Destinie

Action Items:

1.)  Share your thoughts on the importance of history and mental health care, please.

2.) Share your thoughts on how we Human Beings might start to build a more fully inclusive society for all of us, and how this episode of Babylon 5 could help that process.

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: for a kinder world…    

Shira Destinie A. Jones, BsC, MAT, MPhil

our year 2021 CE =  12021 HE

(GED lesson plans: Day 1)

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 this GoodReads button: ,  Please leave a review, if you can make a bit of time, on the GoodReads page.

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.

 

The Bright side of PTSD: understanding Firuze, Amelia, and Harry?

Smells, noises or lights can suddenly awaken some of us, and refuse to let us sleep until identified. Long-lasting childhood traumas can leave your Inner Child reluctant to come out from under the coffee table. Some ideas, illustrated by examples from historical and fictional sages, may help your Inner Parent to teach safety and trust to that Frightened Inner Child so that your Inner Adult, your competent and ambitious self who’d rather ignore both Child and Parent, can get on with succeeding in life.

First, one possible intrepretation of Hillel’s famous pair of questions:
A. אם אין אני לי, מי לי (Im ein ani li, mi li: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me,”) is that each of us must parent and protect his or her own inner child, and

B. ? וכשאני לעצמי, מה אני ; (Vekesh’ani le’atzmi, mah ani ? “And if I am only for myself, what am I?”), also stand with others who have been wounded.

Second, if, like Harry Potter, you’ve sustained significant losses in your life, even very early on, is there someone you can recall, or as Harry uses to conjure his first Patronus, even some imaginary memory, showing love or kindness, even if from or to a stranger just for a moment? Your Inner Parent can use that image to show your Inner Child that there is hope for this world, and that is worth holding on to and fighting for, to motivate your ambitious Inner Adult to keep going. This is being for yourself in the most crucial way: parenting yourself through the panic and soothing those constantly jangled nerves until you learn to trust life. Then your ambitious and centered Inner Adult can take it from there to build the life you want to live.

Third, if, like Amelia, you see that it would be safer to give up than to fight, perhaps your Inner Adult can take the lead, having learned by watching your Inner Parent defend your own Inner Child, that sometimes an adult must sacrifice to create a better world for all Human Children. And like Feruze Hatun, healing all those around you may come at a high personal cost, but honesty and love, even shown to our enemies, as Gandhi and Dr. King proved, can indeed defeat hate, and bring you greater self-confidence and feelings of security.

So, warrior like Amelia or Intergenerational Community Parent to all, like Feruze Hatun, or just competent, capable, and knitting lots of hats for House Elves like Hermione, parenting yourself can lead to parenting others , for the good of All Humankind. Or you could still become a Body Guard.

Some more of my thoughts on how local government Policy such as accepting part of local taxes in local currencies/Time Dollars can help stimulate local community employment and inclusion for PTSD survivors are found in my related paper on Building Community and the crucial role of Intergenerational Participation in Community : Shavuot (Pentacost) as one of four Biblical pillars of building community.

 

originally posted September 10th, 12017 HE

Action Prompts:

1.) Share your thoughts on how we can build empathy in our society today

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

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Click here to read, if you like:

Science Fiction/Fantasy Shows,  Lupin, or Money Heist

Holistic High School Lessons,

           or Long Range Nonfiction, or Historical Fiction

Shira

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

Minbari Mondays, And The Sky Full of Stars, and Remembering…

This is the continuation of our fictional letter (reviewing each film and episode of Babylon 5) that I receive each week from Ranger Mayann.

Here is her 10th report:

—

Nih sakh sh’lekk, sleem wa, Greetings from Tuzanor:

In this report, in your Earth year 2258, it is the second year of operation of the station. This  incident revolved around the guilt of surviving when others did not, and why it is important to remember. 

It is important to remember, even when one has acted shamefully, as our Gray Council did that day in torturing Sinclair.

Delenn gladly gave the knowledge of our biology, while confirming the sacrifice made by your Doctor Franklin, for us when we were your enemies. She was also the first to know that the Commander was missing, and the one, after Sinclair saw her in his memories, to welcome him back home.

And to protect his lie of not remembering…

From the city of  Tuzanor, on Minbar

Earth year 2278,

Anla’Shok Mayann

–

  Addendum to Ranger Mayann’s report, by Shira:  This episode has one of the most telling Ivanova quotes:

 “Mr. Garibaldi, there are days I’m very glad I don’t have to think the way you do.”

And through Sinclair’s eyes, we see the absolute despair of volunteering to fight an unwinnable battle, and fighting anyway, in the hope that your death can buy just enough time to save a few civilian lives.

That was part ten of Ranger Mayann’s letter on the history of the Babylon Project.  It can be seen from another point of view by watching the Babylon 5: Season 1, Episode 8, which I mildly recommend.  It’s an important episode, and those who like epic space battles will be happy with some scenes in this episode, but for me, as a survivor of long-lasting childhood trauma, it was hard, and is always hard, to watch this episode. 

I can feel the Commander’s grief at having lived when all of his friends died on The Line, and he alone of his squad, not to mention the vast majority of pilots who volunteered to “hold The Line” died.  I know that pain of wondering why I got out of it safely, when so many around me did not.  Events from the past can impact our current lives, and must be understood in context.

Also, do not borrow from knee-cappers!

Sorry, I did not shed any tears at the death of this idiot Ensign Red Shirt (does it seem like the gray guys from security always seem to get killed off in each episode, kind of like back in…).

On the other hand, this does remind me that we do need to do something about those predatory Pay Day lenders…

See Ranger Mayann’s 9th report, from last week on hate crimes.

and then

her 11th report: Minbari Mondays, Deathwalker, and Context for Understanding,

To see all of her reports,

see the B5 Reviews page

Shira

Action Items:

1.)  Share your thoughts on guilt, and surviving trauma, if you will.

2.) Share your thoughts on how we Human Beings might start to build a more fully inclusive society for all of us, and how this episode of Babylon 5 could help that process.

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

Nih sakh sh’lekk, sleem wa.

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Click on the ShiraDest menu, from the B5 reviews Page linked above, for pages leading to more posts, to read, if you like:

Holistic High School Lessons, free for adult learners,

           or

 Long Term Nonfiction & Historical Fiction

 

 

Shira

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

Update Link: a public health Menace and a private Inferno

One year later, it still holds true: (and has been updated again, in 12022 HE…)

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Click here to read, if you like:

Shira

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