santana is a bad bitch, and velma kelly is a bad bitch. santana belongs in the cell block tango and in singing all that jazz. they're both women who have been falsely persecuted and who have something to prove.
catherine parr (six)
out of all of the queens, i think santana relates to parr the most. i also think she'd be a baller cleves but i think santana likes the emotional connection to parr, and that parr is a woman who used her own talents to get ahead. i also think it's an empowerment anthem that santana would be known for.
lola (damn yankees)
this is really hard for santana, because it's one of the movie musicals she watched with her abuela (while she and her abuela were on speaking terms) and they used to sing "whatever lola wants" to each other. santana has a secret manifestation that if she ever plays lola, her abuela will reconcile.
sheila bryant (a chorus line)
a chorus line is such a bucket list show for santana, and out of all of the roles she thinks she'd fit sheila the best. sheila is the one with daddy issues in at the ballet.
persephone (hadestown)
honestly this one would just be fun. santana's voice is a perfect match for persephone, the rasp would absolutely demolish everyone, and it's a jazz style that she would love to sing in.
judas (jesus christ superstar)
tell me a genderbent judas would not slay the house boots down houston i'm deceased. this would destroy everyone ngl.
gloria (on your feet!)
santana wants to play gloria aka a cuban legend.
vanessa or nina (in the heights)
santana used to want to be nina, specifically because of the character's relationship with her abuela. she sings an incredible tribute, everything i know, and santana had a similar experience to nina in breathe when she went to the university of kentucky. but her abuela doesn't speak to her so we shove all of those emotions away. vanessa is the bad bitch, santana is a bad bitch, so she wants to be vanessa now.
bonus: anita (west side story)
santana got to play anita in her senior year at laguardia and it was life changing. everyone cried.
A Mediator (INFP) is someone who possesses the Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Prospecting personality traits. Making up only 4% of the population, these rare personality types tend to be quiet, open-minded, imaginative, and apply a caring and creative approach to everything they do.
Mediator Traits
Mediator personalities are true idealists, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better. While they may be perceived as calm, reserved, or even shy, Mediators have an inner flame and passion that can truly shine.
When deciding how to move forward, they will look to honor, beauty, morality and virtue – Mediators are led by the purity of their intent, not rewards and punishments.
Unlike their Extraverted cousins though, Mediators will focus their attention on just a few people, a single worthy cause – spread too thinly, they’ll run out of energy, and even become dejected and overwhelmed by all the bad in the world that they can’t fix.
Left unchecked, Mediators may start to lose touch, withdrawing into “hermit mode”, and it can take a great deal of energy from their friends or partner to bring them back to the real world.
Strengths that are very Gavin:
Seek and Value Harmony
Idealistic
Passionate
Dedicated and Hard-Working
Weaknesses that are very Gavin:
Too Altruistic
Too Idealistic
Take Things Personally
Difficult to Get to Know
Friendships
The true friends of people with the Mediator personality type tend to be few and far between, but those that make the cut are often friends for life. The challenge is the many dualities that this type harbors when it comes to being sociable – Mediators crave the depth of mutual human understanding, but tire easily in social situations; they are excellent at reading into others’ feelings and motivations, but are often unwilling to provide others the same insight into themselves – it’s as though Mediators like the idea of human contact, but not the reality of social contact.
Workplace Habits
In the workplace, Mediators face the challenge of taking their work and their profession personally. To Mediators, if it isn’t worth doing, it isn’t really worth doing, and this sense of moral purpose in their work colors everything from how they respond to authority to how they express it. Though the way the Mediator personality type shows through depends on the position, there are a few basic truths about what Mediators seek in the workplace: they value harmony, need an emotional and moral connection to their work, and loathe bureaucratic tedium.
The crunching of snow echoed in her ears as she whipped around the corner, she pulled out her flip-phone checking the time as she ran down the street praying not to bump into anyone or slip on black ice.
10:42 pm
As the crowd grew thicker her breath eased she was getting closer.
At last she could see the giant Gothic structure, the church sat in the center of the block pouring its bright light into the street. Large wreaths decorated the wooden church doors as well as endless yards of red ribbon. There was no sign of her mother near the nativity scene, which only meant one thing. Her father had managed to beat her there.
“At least there’s a seat waiting for me,” she thought to herself.
Sifting through the sea of people she finally found her little family. Her mother and father sat towards the end, that way they would be easy for her to find. Her mother sat tall, although that was a bit of an oxymoron considering that the woman was barely over four foot ten inches, as she scanned the room looking for her daughter. Just as they made eye contact, the small woman waved her arm high, swinging it wildly in the air.
Making her way over, she scuttled through the row of people before finally taking her seat next to her father.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“Oh, she was probably studying. You know she never stops reading those books,” her mother explained.
The mass had started before she was able to answer, which Chloe was grateful for. She hated to lie to her parents, but she didn’t want to spoil the surprise she had spent all day working on for them.
The rest of the hour flew by, and the mass was soon over.
***
“Oh, that smells like home, has another Filipino family moved into the building?” her mother asked, her tired eyes sparkled with hope at that idea.
“Hmm, I don’t know inay. But the food smells amazing,” she offered. Chloe did her best to hold back her smirk. She rushed to open the apartment door. “Here let me get that for you, I know you both must be exhausted.”
Before they could answer the raven-haired teen was already in front of them opening the door. The aroma danced into the hall, revealing her secret. Turning the lights on, as her parents stepped in, her heart began to race faster than she had anticipated.
“You did all of this? By yourself?” her father asked, his voice cracking.
“Yes. Do you like it?” she asked. Their silence alarmed her, “oh, I’m so sorry. I thought you would both like it. See I made lechon and a fruit salad for you inay, I hoped it would remind you of Noche Buena back home. And for you dad, I made stuffing, bacon rolls and roasted potatoes. I used my birthday money from the grandparents as well as what I had left over from my summer work…” she rambled, for a bit before turning around to face her parents.
Tears ran down both of their faces, as they opened their arms to give their daughter a hug.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to make you cry—”
“It’s perfect.” They both said.
She let out a sigh of relief, relaxing her shoulders. “Oh, I’m so happy. You both do so much. You both constantly work, and you have so little time for yourselves, I wanted to be able to say thank you.” Her parents rarely had time to get enough sleep, they always worked until late on Christmas eve, which meant that many of their traditions were overlooked, she knew it hurt her mother. Now that she was sixteen, she was finally able to give back to them.
“It looks and smells delicious, Chloe, thank you,” her father said.
She ushered them to their seats, serving them, before taking her own seat.
“One day, I’ll make enough money that you won’t have to work on Christmas eve,” she thought to herself.
Dahlia was dubious at first about this Cinna man. She’d heard a few people mention his name amidst her freak out. Perhaps he was a man who dealt with the trickier tributes. Bring on the challenge, she thought to herself.
Turned out, he was not awful.
No one managed to get her fully ready, though some did try. After a while they gave up and just handed her over to the new man. He looked cool, warm even. He greeted her with a smile that almost made her want to give him a huge hug. Then she reminded herself who she was. She put on her weary expression and stared at the room around them.
Cinna’s room was full of all sorts of clothing but one dress stood out to her in general. Red silk, strapless. The bottom was painted with darker colours. She could just picture the flames lighting up the bottom as the girl on fire twirled. Her fingers reached out to touch the beautiful material but suddenly, the man’s voice interrupted.
‘Beautiful isn’t it? If I do say so myself. ’ His tone was rough, almost as if he was getting choked up at the thought, ‘I like to remind myself of her.’
She paused, the name on the tip of her tongue, ‘Katniss…’
Cinna quickly realized the secret to handling Dahlia was giving her what she wanted. He let her sit and stroke the fabric of Katniss’ dress as he went to work on cleaning up her face. He was more gentle that the prep team, whom he apologized profusely for every few minutes. The feeling of his thumb rubbing across her cheek reminded her so much of her father. The way he’d cupped her chin as he’d told her to run in the woods that fateful day.
‘Your hair is so long and beautiful sweetheart. ’ Dahlia flinched as he ran his fingers through it. It hurt. He seemed to be the only one capable of realizing that. ‘This hasn’t been brushed in a while huh? Not to worry, I have an idea.’
She was again dubious when he revealed his idea. However as soon as he started working on her hair, she changed her mind. He twisted the strands in with strips of orange wool until almost all of her hair was complete. Even though he revealed he’d have to remove it afterwards, she didn’t care. For the first time, she tore her attention away from the dress to look at her reflection in the mirror. The hair, along with her clean face made her look… normal. She trusted him to do whatever he needed after that. When she mentioned her feet he brought out a pair of sandals. When she mentioned liking the woods, he let her wear a branch crafted crown atop her head. Dahlia wasn’t a fan of the makeup though. The black lipstick made her lips stick together--- maybe that’s why they called it lipstick. The gems he put around her eyes made her itch. However she was picking her battles with this man.
The dress itself was not as bad as she was expecting. It was pure black at first, then Cinna began to paint beautiful flecks of orange and yellow across the bottom. It was stunning. Like a fire started burning at the bottom of the dress and transformed into black smoke by the top.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled.
They had time to spare before the parade started. Cinna sat and talked about Katniss, Dahlia sat and listened. One thing was for sure, if Katniss was friends with this man, she should be to.
Throughout his forty years of life, he’s made a countless number of friends; but none were like Adrienne. They had grown so close so quickly; to the point where neither could, nor wanted to, imagine a life without one another. They’re attached at the hip, and at the heart, for better or for worse, through thick or thin, through health or sickness. It was almost like a marriage - except their love is of the purest familial form. No matter what others may say, claiming they’d be cute together or they’d make a good couple, his deep adoration and admiration to his best friend is how he’d look at one of his blood related brothers. Or rather, the better metaphor would be similar to how an older brother looks at and takes care of his younger sister; protecting her at all costs, always there to poke fun at her, and loving her unconditionally. Without fault of judgement, supporting her in every decision. Even those he may not agree with. Adrienne is exactly the little sister he’s always wanted, the perfect aunt to his children - especially his daughter, having a female figure besides her mother in Anney’s life is something Allen wished he could’ve provided her with. And Adrienne fits that role perfectly.
The day he and Adrienne had meat; unofficially, really. It was over the internet, so they hadn’t technically ‘met’ until later on shortly before WrestleMania, one of the few instances where they’d been at the same place at the same time. Nevertheless, they hit it off instantly; sharing that they were both huge fans of each other, and they had a lot of common interests. The biggest one being their daily need to bicker back and forth. Whether it be about who’s a nerd, who’ll walk out victorious in their WrestleMania bout, or anything else they happen to think of. Though it may seem.. strange, almost, it’s what brought them closer together. What’s made them inseparable. While Allen doesn’t really live a happy life, the one thing he can always count on to put at least a temporary smile on his face is their goofing around.
However, his favorite moment they’ve shared is also their darkest one. April fool’s day, 2017. The day of NXT TakeOver: Orlando, the day Ember Moon fell at the feet of Asuka. Since the match had been announced, Adrienne had been so hyped up about the match. Saying she was going to end Asuka’s undefeated streak and finally win the NXT Women’s Championship - a dream of hers since she had first stepped foot into the developmental territory. If anyone could do it, it was her. She’d been built up to take down the Empress….. but then, she didn’t. Asuka managed to hold onto her title, and no one was more crushed than Adrienne herself. Allen had been watching backstage, and he instantly ran down to the gorilla to be there for Adrienne once she got out. Unshed tears in her eyes, she attempted to brush past Allen so she could be by herself, but he grabbed her wrist and guided her to an empty hallway before pulling her against his chest, letting those tears and muttered words of how much it hurt - it’s her title, she should’ve won, she’s ready, she needs it, it wasn’t fair. Her voice as broken as her heart. And Allen just holds her close, quietly stroking her hair as she gets it all out. Blinking away his own tears, struggling to remain strong. She will never be good enough. Allen pulls back some, taking her face in his hands so he could really look at her, thumbs stroking away the tears. Whispering all the right things she needed to hear, calming her down to get her out of her ring gear and gently wipe away her make up. It’ll be alright.
At end of the day, he’d be lost without Adrienne. She’s like a small star, the kind that captivates those who truly that the time to look. At a glance, they all look the same, but this one is different. Special. Unique. One that shines the brightest, twinkling in the night sky. Breathtaking to look at, but complex to truly understand. Most don’t even take the time to bother learning the different layers to a star, the millions of years it takes to sculpt it into what it is. And Adrienne is really the same way. On the outside she is this gorgeous young woman full of sass and attitude, always ready with her witty replies and sharp tongue. On the inside, she’s this complex being, and only few would really take the time to learn each part to her. But it’s worth it, getting to know the real Adrienne. Just like Allen has, and he continues to learn more and more everyday. Because he loves this star.
HE WAS GOING TO SUFFOCATE. who put someone from district seven in faux fur? at least, he hoped it was faux. the lights of the capitol were beaming down on him, he could hear people cheering and feel his district partner next to him. was she clenching up or was that him? he couldn’t think straight, the lights were affecting his brain. just smile, he said to himself. it mustn’t take too long to get to the end of the strip the chariots were heading down. couldn’t these horses move any faster? ...
landon had never been one to argue. when his stylist had showed him the outfit he was being subjected to, he’d just nodded. it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. at least he was covered. hickory would find that hilarious, landon wanting to be covered up. here in the capitol he felt so exposed. the more clothes the better. seven’s stylist was nice, though seemed a little fake. landon had to remind himself that it was just another person doing their job. like the mentors and escorts --- and in some ways, the gamemakers. that was the best way to look at everything surrounding the games, landon had discovered. there were obviously other coping methods, but they all seemed less healthy.
the stylist assisted landon in getting into the green and black ensemble. which was a good job considering he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to put his arms. his feet had been squashed into two boots, then they’d gone to work on his face as one smoothed down his hair. there was a mirror opposite him that allowed him to see what they were doing. he didn’t look like himself. perhaps that was a good thing. he could pretend to be someone else, someone that was more comfortable with stuff like this. the suddenly, he felt them grabbing his fingers.
‘ what are you doing? ’ he pulled his hand away instantly. his bare hand... where was cecily’s ring? his eyes fell onto the stylists hand where it sat. ‘ no, the ring stays on.’
it was the first time he’d been defiant here. it sounded so silly coming out of his mouths. the capitolite muttered something about it not being cohesive with the look. as if anyone was going to be looking at his hands.
‘ it’s very precious to me. ’ he found the eyes of the other stylist in the room, pleading with his own. ‘ please. ’ a slender hand slipped the ring back on to index finger with a warm smile. he gave a nodded thanks, though the stylist appeared to ignore it. instead they whisked off to grab a pair of brown gloves. a compromise.
he slipped them on without complaint; grateful for the idea. his hands were a little too big for them but he managed. the two tributes were then ushered into the chariots and the lights broke through. people were screaming. it was time for the show to begin.
Aqui a história começa a ser contada, entre as plantações de café e os casarões à moda antiga. os ventos consumiam os galhos que sujavam o chão, o piso lá dentro era de madeira polida, nas áreas frias mármores centenários cobriam o chão, o sino da igreja badalava preguiçosamente, os troncos se erguiam até quase encostar no céu e a brisa vinha com cheiro de café da manhã. no interior, tudo parecia tranquilo, e era. mas ainda assim, "a sensação era de que se a gente abrisse o portão, e entrasse pelo corredor, ia dar de cara com um corpo no chão". os muros eram altos o suficiente para impedir que o mundo de fora invadisse o mundo de dentro, impecável, imaculado. a agua corria perto, dava para ouvir o som dela batendo nas pedras e sacolejando, a vista era digna de uma conta bancária privilegiada. e talvez por tanto privilegio que helena sempre possuiu prazeres secretos, desde a tenra idade fora vista como muito diferente dos irmãos, gostava de subir em arvores, de nadar nas aguas, de pegar fruta do pé nos galhos mais íngremes, gostava de bater papo com os trabalhadores da colheita, gostava de rir. mas tudo isso era, não apenas mal visto, como ato passível de punição, e portanto censurados dentro e fora dos muros que cercavam a cidade. e lá, os Viscenza pareciam ser donos não apenas do -enorme- pedaço de terra, mas também de um certo clima regido na cidade. um estilo, um nome, uma imagem. zelada com muito capricho por quem, ao nascer no interior, sabia o preço da afiada língua alheia, e superestimava os olhares de inveja como se fossem gracejos a serem colhidos. assim ela cresceu, em uma cidade em que todos queriam ser helena, ou ter helena, ou ambos, ao mesmo tempo. "corre, leninha! ou vai se atrasar para a missa das oito."
a mãe exclamou. exclamou, porque não gritava, a classe corria de maneira polvorosa demais em suas veias para que se rebaixasse a tal ato. e num piscar de olhos, a filha estava ali. tinha oito anos, mas se portava como se tivesse dez, ou quinze, preparada milimetricamente para uma vida que já havia sido escolhida e planejada em detalhes antes mesmo de nascer. "ainda é cedo mãe, temos tempo." disse de forma sutil em um sorriso. o vestido branco com saia bufante era febre na época, mas naquela cidade helena era a única que tinha. adornado com um broche, ouro, diamantes cravejados, o brasão da família, como se pertencessem a alguma dinastia real, e ali de fato pertenciam. "você vai se sentar na frente, na primeira fileira, já sabe para quem sorrir e a quem agradar. faça a dança no final do encontro, ensaiamos isso, você nasceu pronta, mas cuidado com o pé esquerdo, eu vi ele se entortando da ultima vez que treinamos no saguão." helena acenou com a cabeça, e recebeu um pequeno puxão de cabelo dado pela mãe que ainda os penteava, em um ritual que parecia interminável, as vezes se tornava doloroso, mas helena não reclamava. era sempre elogiada pelos cabelos sedosos e brilhantes, longos, volumosos, em ondas. diferente dos irmãos, que tinham boa parte de seus cuidados deixados por conta das empregadas e governantas, os cuidados de helena eram, e sempre seriam, de exclusividade total da mãe. eram unha e carne, como não poderiam deixar de ser. quando nasceu, após três filhos homens, helena deu sentido novo a vida da mãe, que agora viveria a partir da filha todos os desejos e anseios que lhe foram roubados pela precoce gravidez. nasceu para dançar balé de forma perfeita, ainda que seus dedos sangrassem com a pressão dos ossos na sapatilha, para usar meias brancas até os joelhos e vestidos rodados que custavam um rombo no cartão, para estudar em escola de freira, rezar cinco vezes ao dia as mesmas orações e decorar cada movimento das aulas de etiqueta. nasceu para se casar com o homem mais elegante da cidade, com a maior herança, que viesse da família com o melhor sobrenome, ainda que esse fosse um alguns anos acima da sua faixa etária. "posso sair com a nina depois do encontro? os pais dela me chamaram para..." sua fala foi interrompida por mais um puxão de cabelo, houve um resmungo, baixo, pela dor, mas como sempre engolido pela fala da mãe.
"já te disse que marina não é companhia boa o suficiente para você. a família Simões já esteve em alta, mas agora é sinônimo de decadência, os negócios estão falindo, não dá para você continuar com essa amizade." o tom da mãe era calmo e sereno, mas um aviso cortante, que helena, ainda criança, não ousava desagradar. "mas mãe..." tentou, inutilmente. nina, em questão, era sua melhor amiga desde que ambas entraram para a escola, aos 3, eram nina e nena, desde sempre, e a amizade sempre havia sido bem vista e incentivada, até os negócios do pai da garota começarem a ir de mal a pior. "se quer se encontrar com ela uma ultima vez, para se despedir, peça ao seu pai, talvez ele tenha menos juízo e mais doçura do que eu." era inútil tentar, o pai, um comendador, era um mero coadjuvante naquela historia onde, as duas, ao mesmo tempo, dividiam a tela como protagonistas. ou, para explicitar melhor, a mãe ficava atrás, dando o holofote para a filha enquanto a preparava para assumir o papel principal, como uma mãe de miss, que também já foi miss, lhe passando a coroa. entretanto, o lugar dos bastidores que Vivian ocupava, generosamente visto por todos como um lindo ato de cuidado, e muitas vezes obsessão pela própria filha, também era o lugar de quem maneja as cordas de uma marionete.
helena obedeceu, como sempre obedecia quando estava as vistas da mãe, foi acompanhada para a igreja, se sentou no primeiro banco, enquanto a mãe, lá atrás, a observava orgulhosa. rezou, ajoelhou, sorriu e dançou, sempre gracejando, como lhe fora ensinado desde que nasceu. porém ao final da missa, logo após a comunhão, helena desapareceu. um cochicho correu de banco em banco sobre o lugar vazio na fileira, e todos ali sabiam de cor quem era a presença que o ocupava, era impossível ignora-la. o burburinho seguiu, até encontrar os ouvidos de Vivian, que imediatamente se levantou alarmada, dando inicio a uma caça as bruxas ao mesmo tempo que se iniciava a procura pela menina. a missa se interrompeu, é claro, era impossível continuar qualquer ato pacifico de congregação com o caos que se instaurava entre os assentos, vazios, já que ninguém permaneceria sentado mais. a comoção se instaurou de tal modo que o jornal da cidade fora chamado para noticiar o desaparecimento, em poucas horas estavam todos lá, com fotógrafos cercando a igreja e policiais tocando a sirene. só então é que foram perceber que helena não era a única criança desaparecida do local, marina tinha ido com ela, e então, poucos minutos foram gastos até que uma criança titubeasse a ponto de dedurar o esconderijo das duas. foram encontradas ali pelos arredores, cercadas de arvores, papeando, até serem arrastadas, separadamente, cada uma para as suas casas, com um aviso silencioso para que a comunidade se dispersasse e os jornalistas fossem contidos. o "desaparecimento" havia sido resolvido, a noticia morreria, por hora, até estampar a manchete do dia seguinte. "helena viscenza de bourbon foi encontrada, após um curto período de desaparecimento, com sua amiga, nos arredores da Escola Santa Magdalena." ao chegar em casa, o franzino corpo foi atirado contra a parede com uma força que não parecia pertencer aos dedos pintados de esmalte francês. "eu te avisei." era um tom agudo, que quase estalava nos ouvidos, mas não teve tempo para ouvir ou para olhar o que viria a seguir. "tanto trabalho, tanto trabalho para construir uma reputação e é assim que você me agradece!" estilhaços. no chão, na madeira, sobre a pele. mais estilhaços.
