"She's late..." the older woman mumbled to herself, starting to raise from her chair, pacing around in the study. Her gaze trailed in the room, resting at the window, half blind to the snowy scenery. "It's not like her... She is never late," she continued talking to herself; it was a habit that passed from mother to daughter.
Fastened steps moved from one corridor to the other, paying no mind to the younger keepers giving her greetings, and they all knew to keep to themselves to avoid her wrath. As matriach, she was known to be stern with very little patience for loitering.
No knocks, the door slammed open, pale gaze staring at the unused bed, empty bookshelves, and half packed away clothing littered on the floor. A letter left on the desk.
"To Mother" the envelope read.
Short, shaped nails clawed at it, ripping it open, skimming only briefly.
"Mother,
As much as I am grateful to you and your education...--
-But your way is wrong, mother.--
---Surely I see-...-in the end.
I--"
Sound of the paper crumbling was the loudest sound in the compound. Though if someone could hear a heart shatter, that would come to a close second.
The older keeper took three deep breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
Once the third one was done, the paper got tossed into the fire, a finger wiped a tear from her eye, and she closed the door after herself, leaving the room untouched.
And no one would dare enter it, till she deemed fit.
Importance of being Media and information literacy
Media and Information Literacy recognizes the primary role of Media and Information in our everyday lives. The purpose of being an Information and Media Literate is to engage in a digital society where one needs to be able to use, understand, inquire, create, communicate and think critically. The importance of people who know media and information is high because today we live in the 21st century that makes us live with the rapid growth of technologies such as information media. Knowing the media and information well will give us an advantage in today's modern world, especially in the media, by avoiding most false information in other types of media and by recognizing and collecting accurate information. Being Media and Information literate is not just for yourself to understand but for you to spread the information to others.
So in the digital age, or modern society, anyone can easily create media. Through sharing (the information in SNS), people are able to communicate and spread awareness to everyone. With this kind of mindset for such digital users, it can help others know that being into social media is not just a disadvantage, but it has a great role for everyone to be a Media and Information Literate.
People are no longer limited to the desktop computer. People now use mobile technologies since its very accessible to every one. Media and Information Literacy therefore is about helping any one to become competent, critical, and literate in all media forms so that they control the interpretation of what they see or hear rather than letting the interpretation control them.
In other words, Media and Information Literacy will help you become a brilliant receiver and sender of information in media and in any other platform.
The production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by the Grandstreet Theatre could only be described by one word: dreamy. Invited by Arthur Astor to celebrate the beginning of a new school year and the reopening of the Alpha Theater, Montana’s beloved theater company did not disappoint, bringing to the campus a whimsical play about four individuals in different journeys for love, and faeries. What could be a better combination than love and magic, right? Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one of the most frequently produced plays of the 16th century playwright and has always been a fan favorite, with its comedic themes and amusing scenes, but with underlying tones of darkness in the portrayal of the multiple romantic story lines. It was evident by the standing ovation they received from the student body, faculty, and staff of Astor Academy that the play was very much enjoyed, and the resonating sound of applause continued until the curtain call.
However, this was not what the student body of Astor Academy was talking about by the end of the evening. Not even at the mixer that was prepared. Because by the time they arrived at the East Wing dining hall, full of excitement both from the play and for the dinner party ahead, they found that the exquisitely prepared hall had been turned upside down. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words, and it couldn’t be truer in this case, as we find ourselves unable to accurately describe the destruction that was supposed to have been the dinner party.
Naturally, Arthur Astor was furious at such an indecent display, and held an urgent school assembly the very next morning, promising both to the actors of Grandstreet Theatre and the entire student body and staff of Astor Academy that they will not rest until the people responsible for these unforgivable acts are caught and properly sanctioned.
It seems like what happened at the East Wing dining hall, now out of bounds, is similar to what transpired at the Alpha Theater just months ago. We’ve all been made aware of the existence of a group of people who call themselves ‘the Arsonists’, and are no stranger to the terrors they have caused the student population. But from small pranks and scares, it seems they have extended their repertoires and have begun indulging in grand schemes of destruction. If their intention for wrecking what would have been a beautiful evening was to anger the administration, they certainly achieved their goal for Arthur Astor has made a statement that they will extensively investigate the matter. Any and all involvement in the aforementioned group will result to the appropriate disciplinary actions or, if worse comes to worse, expulsion.
The following students have been deemed suspicious and are currently being investigated regarding their activities the night of the incident. Furthermore, their involvement in the so called “Arsonists” is being questioned.
Almeida, Agata
Amano, Margaret
Deschamps, Florian
Fitzgerald, Anastasia
Haldar, Kellan
Kensington, Reese
Rose, Andrew
Wang, Soren
OKAY so I’m basically just gonna give you guys kind of an idea on how the interrogation would go??? They’d probably be called to the headmaster’s office in the middle of class/sometime during the day, one by one, over the course of the following days. There is a set of questions written down below so that you guys will know how your characters will be interrogated but, basically, the headmaster probably tried to suggest that they are involved with the Arsonists and are responsible for the whole thing. You guys can have your characters make use of this information however you want, may it be in a self-para or in simple threads. If you have any questions, feel free to shoot us a message!
Where, exactly, were you the evening of the play?
Is there anyone who can corroborate your story for you?
What did you do in response to the incident?
Did you witness anything worth noting during that evening?
Madali mag hanap ng kapalit. Pero mahirap mag hanap ng makakapantay sa mga pinaramdam at ginawa niya para sa 'yo. Mahirap makahanap ng taong tanggap ka sa kung sino ka, 'yung hindi mo na kailangan ng filter sa tuwing may sasabihin ka, 'yung sa tuwing magkasama kayo ay 'di mo na kailangan magpanggap na ayos ka lang, na ayos lang sa 'yo ang isang bagay. Nakakapagod makisabay sa agos ng mundo—pero ayos lang kung sa pagtatapos ng araw, may isang makakaintindi sa iyong mga saloobin at hindi ka matatakot na ipakita sa kaniya ang iyong tunay na itsura sa likod ng maskara na pinapakita mo sa mundo. Kasi nga ay tanggap niya lahat sa iyo. Tanggap niya ang pinakapangit at pinakamagandang katangian mo. Hindi na siya bata para hindi maintindihan na hindi ka naman perpekto.
Mahirap.
Mahirap makatagpo ng taong kabisado ka mula ulo hanggang paa. Kaya kung nahanap mo na siya ay huwag ka nang maghanap ng iba. Isang malaking pagkakamali iyon. Katulad ng ginawa ko.
Hic et Nunc (Here and now): the challenge of immigration in France
This morning at the market I met a fruit and veg seller from Egypt. He spoke a bit of English, so we had a short conversation in fits and starts, choppy sentences and lots of head nodding and probably too many utterances of “oui”. Laughing at my market list, he graciously helped me find “petit oignon”, “echalates”, “frambroises”, and “bananes”. It wasn’t until the end of the conversation that he told me he was from Egypt. He said he’d be traveling there in two months.
In this moment I wished I could readily speak French, as I wanted to know more about this man. What was his story? What was his experience in France? What was it like being an immigrant to a country that has traditionally been resistant to multiculturalism and diversity? Why did he come to Paris? How did he become a market seller?
These questions remain unanswered. Yet after my short exchange with him, I was reminded of an exhibition I attended the other day at the Musée de l'Homme, entitled: “His et Nunc” (Here and Now). The exhibition features photographs by French photographer Clarisse Rebotier and explores how migrants arrive in France and are welcomed and integrated into society.
While I know that the market seller I met this morning has a personal story relative to his experience, I cannot help but wonder what connections could be made between his life and the lives of other immigrants showcased in this small exhibition... And now as I reflect on the exhibition, this was the main message of Rebotier after all-- each immigrant to France is first and foremost an individual with a unique story worthy of considering.
Placed within the context of a larger exhibition, “Saison en droits!”, which commemorates the 70th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, thirty black and white portraits of French immigrants and refugees are displayed on a single wall. Subjects are photographed on the Esplanade of Human Rights at Trocadero, with the Eiffel Tower in the background.
The Eiffel Tower, while blurry behind the subjects, stands as a symbol representative of France, rooted in time and place. This in turn allows the photographed individuals to be rooted in time and place, be it for the quick snap of a photograph; many of these individuals have come to France fleeing war in their home countries. Most importantly, the depiction of the Eiffel Tower in each of the thirty portraits reveals that the Eiffel Tower belongs to everyone. This idea, taken as a key theme, can point to Rebotier’s underlying message that France should be and is for everyone.
Looking at Rebotier’s documentary and artistic photographs, we glimpse smiling and peaceful immigrants, migrants, and refugees. Yet it is of supreme importance to recognize that the subjects in each of the photographs are not just immigrants, migrants, and refugees, but people with an identity.
Rebotier has highlighted the identity of each of her subjects in two major ways. First, the names of each of her subjects are written in pencil next to their photographs on the museum wall. This is significant because a name holds one’s individuality. A name personalizes a story... for there is danger when we generalize, make assumptions, and consider “a single story” representative of any people group.
Considering the topic of immigrants in France, Rebotier says, “Although I often hear about people who are ‘different’, personally, I still haven’t understood what they’re supposed to be different from...?”
The people photographed are more than immigrants, they are human beings with lived experiences-- deep sorrows and triumphant joys-- just like you and I. Written on the walls within this context, a name holds power; it distinguishes each person from one another but relates us all in the solidarity of being human.
The second way in which Rebotier has highlighted identity includes transforming her exhibition into more of a participatory project. By letting each of her subjects develop their own photographs in the dark room, these individuals have become authors and artists themselves. This action, while simple, is profound in the way it communicates the idea of ownership over one’s life. Even though welcoming diversity and integrating refugees is currently a great challenge for France, immigrants and refugees do not and should not have to live subjugated solely under the titles of “immigrant”, “refugee”, or “migrant”. While these titles are part of their story and who they are at the moment, but it does not make up who they are in totality.
We all must be empowered to embark on our own paths and live freely, unhindered by stereotypes and paths others have laid out before us to follow.
“They’re cheerful. They’re fighters! I wanted to show that refugees are first and foremost citizens who are incredibly full of emotions and life,” states Rebotier.
After viewing this exhibition, I say let this be the new mantra for France. Through these small yet impactful images, I have hope for Paris and the fight for equality here. But still the hard work of change needs to be done.
One voice, that of Clarisee Rebotier’s, has spoken out-- and more still need to join-- because largely those who have suffered from discrimination have been silenced. Let the voices rise, against all forms of discrimination, and instead for unity. And may I add-- this is not an issue to be highlighted because of the 70th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, but because it truly matters HIC ET NUNC-- here and now.
( @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast, for the sake of organization, I will be posting all of my #ffxivWrite2017 entries here on @housealderscorn but I will be reblogging it to its proper home @stab-sister )
The leaves of the Shroud had begun to shift from green to the warmer shades of autumn but the air clung to the warmth of summer. It was a perfect day for riding, Magalie decided, and had the stable prepare her horse first thing in the morning.
Her horse was young and strong, a gift from her father of course, and they tore through the forest trails with abandon for hours. By the time she rode through the gates and to the stable, both rider and horse were winded and glistening with sweat. Up ahead, she could see the stable boy who had heard the approaching hoofbeats and walked to meet them.
“You gone this whole time, little miss?” he asked, taking hold of reins and leading the horse toward the stable. Nevin was the stable master’s son. He worked alongside his dad since he could walk, carrying buckets of water to the troughs and polishing saddles. He was sixteen, two years older than Magalie, with a mop of thick blond hair. He’d grown tall and strong over the years, a fact that had not gone unnoticed.
“Always with the ‘little miss’,” said Magalie with a sly grin and wrinkled nose. “My friends call me Magalie. We’re friends, aren’t we Kevin?” She looked down on him, both literally and figuratively, as he began to remove the bridle. Such a cute boy, and tall for a hyur. Common, yes, but cute.
“Oh, I don’t think that would be proper, m’lady. And, erm, begging your pardon, it’s Nevin.” The boy kept his head lowered, only meeting her eyes occasionally. He had great respect for the Dartancours, they had always been good to his family. Stern, but fair. Their daughter, however, was harder to predict.
“Is it?” Magalie replied.
“Aye, little miss. Oh, here let me help-” he began as he reached for her hand.
“I’m perfectly capable of dismounting my own horse,” she said and swatted him away. She kicked her leg over the saddle, perhaps a bit too quickly. In an attempt to impress upon the boy exactly how little she needed his help, she slipped and fell from the saddle. Nevin caught her at the last moment, slowing her momentum a bit as she landed. Even so Magalie thudded to the ground with her foot still dangling from the stirrup.
“Whoop!” Nevin exclaimed and burst into laughter. “Gracious! Little miss are you alri-”
Again, Magalie slapped his hand away with much more force this time. She bared her teeth and wrenched her boot free and stood, giving the larger boy a shove. She brushed herself off, slapping dirt from her pants and jacket as Nevin stood frozen.
She glared up at him and he shrunk from the her fierce, silver eyes. Magalie let out a breath and her glare softened. “Mag-, uh, Miss, M-m’lady. I-I appologize for-”
“Think nothing of it,” she said with a hint of ice in her voice. “These things happen, don’t they?”
“I, uh. Yes, miss. I suppose they do,” replied Nevin, clearly uneasy.
Magalie turned toward the manor, calling over her shoulder as she did so. “Brush him down and polish the saddle before you put it up.” If Nevin replied, she did not hear him.
Upon entering her home, she stood in the foyer and balled her fists, breathing stiffly through her nose. She turned and glared at her reflection in the ornate mirror hung in the hallway. Her hair was a mess, her jacket was disheveled, and a streak of dirt marked her face. She began to wipe it clear when she heard the shuffling of papers in the study and she froze. Father. Going over documents or responding to post, she thought. She watched herself in the mirror as her glare turned into a grin.
Still grinning, she reached for the collar of her shirt and tore it at the seam and popped three buttons. A flap of material hung, exposing a hint of her lace bra. She patted her pants and jacket with her hands and smeared dirt down her neck and chest. Standing back, she admired her work. Letting her grin slip from her face, she pouted into the mirror. She blinked and quivered her chin. As she watched herself, tears began to fall from her eyes and she coughed a sob that echoed through the hall.
She opened the door and slammed it shut so hard the glass rattled. Then, crossing her arms across her chest, Magalie stomped up the hall toward the stairs, sobbing into her hand. As she passed the study, her father looked up. A worried question painted on his face.
“I’ll be in my room, father,” Magalie said, stuttering through her tears. She began to walk toward the stairway when her father bolted from his chair and caught her by the shoulders.
“Mags! Sweetheart! Whatever is the matter?! Are you hurt? Is something…” He fussed over her, patting her face with his large hands and looking her up and down. Magalie let her arms drop, showing him the state of her shirt and his eyes went wide. “Who did this to you?” he demanded.
Magalie shook her head and turned as if she meant to step from his grip and bound up the stairs, but she was held fast by her father’s strong arms. He stroked her hair, tucking the errant strands behind her ears and brought her close into a hug. “Talk to daddy, darling. What has happened?”
She pressed her cheek into her father’s chest and collected herself. “You...you mustn’t blame him, father.”
“Blame who, Sweetheart?”
“The stableboy. He...he only wanted a kiss. I should have let him but I said no,” she said. Magalie felt his father’s chest flex against her cheek and heard him take in a sharp breath through his nose. “I said no,” she repeated, “and he...got angry.” She gripped her father’s shirt into a fist and cried against him in loud, wracking sobs.
“Shhhh, it’s alright now. Everything is alright,” he said unevenly as if straining against a great force. He held her out at arm's length and knelt down to her level. “Now, I want you to go upstairs and have Marcella draw you a hot bath then get some rest before dinner.”
Magalie looked up at her father, tears welling at the corner of her eyes and sniffed. She nodded. “Yes, daddy.” She began to walk away and up the stairs when she turned. “Daddy?” Magalie called. “What will you do?”
Her father stood to his full height. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, princess. Go on, now. That’s it.” When she nodded and began up the stairs again, he turned to the door and strode through it and into the courtyard with fire in his eyes.
As the door closed, Magalie turned toward it once more. She wiped away her tears and a wicked grin carved itself across her young, pretty face. “Goodbye, Kevin.”
