Holy shit. I have ALWAYS thought the people around me were being unconscionably intrusive and power-playing in their starter conversations and they told me I was antisocial and oblivious to culture norms. Turns out, maybe I’m just from a different culture.
When I met my fiance’s African-American stepfather, things did not start well. Stumbling for some way to start a conversation with a man whose life was unlike mine in almost every respect, I asked “So, what do you do for a living?”.
He looked down at his shoes and said quietly “Well, I’m unemployed”.
At the time I cringed inwardly and recognized that I had committed a terrible social gaffe which seemed to scream “Hey prospective in-law, since I am probably going to be a member of your family real soon, I thought I would let you know up front that I am a completely insensitive jackass”. But I felt even worse years later when I came to appreciate the racial dimension of how I had humiliated my stepfather-in-law to be.
For that painful but necessary bit of knowledge I owe a white friend who throughout her childhood attended Chicago schools in a majority Black district. She passed along a marvelous book that helped her make sense of her own inter-racial experiences. It was Kochman’s Black and White Styles in Conflict, and it had a lasting effect on me. One of the many things I learned from this anthropological treasure trove of a book is how race affects the personal questions we feel entitled to ask and the answers we receive in response.
My question to my stepfather was at the level of content a simple conversation starter (albeit a completely failed one). But at the level of process, it was an expression of power. Kochman’s book sensitized me to middle class whites’ tendency to ask personal questions without first considering whether they have a right to know the personal details of someone else’s life. When we ask someone what they do for a living for example, we are also asking for at least partial information on their income, their status in the class hierarchy and their perceived importance in the world. Unbidden, that question can be quite an invasion. The presumption that one is entitled to such information is rarely made explicit, but that doesn’t prevent it from forcing other people to make a painful choice: Disclose something they want to keep secret or flatly refuse to answer (which oddly enough usually makes them, rather than the questioner, look rude).
Kochman’s book taught me a new word, which describes an indirect conversational technique he studied in urban Black communities: “signifying”. He gives the example (as I recall it, 25 years on) of a marriage-minded black woman who is dating a man who pays for everything on their very nice dates. She wonders if he has a good job. But instead of grilling him with “So what do you do for a living?”, she signifies “Whatever oil well you own, I hope it keeps pumping!”.
Her signifying in this way is a sensitive, respectful method to raise the issue she wants to know about because unlike my entitled direct question it keeps the control under the person whose personal information is of interest. Her comment could be reasonably responded to by her date as a funny joke, a bit of flirtation, or a wish for good luck. But of course it also shows that if the man freely chooses to reveal something like “Things look good for me financially: I’m a certified public accountant at a big, stable firm”, he can do so and know she will be interested.
Since reading Kochman’s book, I have never again directly asked anyone what they do for a living. Instead my line is “So how do you spend your time?”. Some people (particularly middle class white people) choose to answer that question in the bog standard way by describing their job. But other people choose to tell me about the compelling novel they are reading, what they enjoy about being a parent, the medical treatment they are getting for their bad back, whatever. Any of those answers flow just as smoothly from the signification in a way they wouldn’t from a direct question about their vocation.
From the perspective of ameliorating all the racial pain in the world, this change in my behavior is a grain of sand in the Sahara. But I pass this experience along nonetheless, for two reasons. First, very generally, if any of us human beings can easily engage in small kindnesses, we should. Second, specific to race, if those of us who have more power can learn to refrain from using it to harm people in any way – major or minor — we should do that too.
This is really useful stuff – as someone who’s on disability and knows a ton of people in the same boat, “What do you do for a living?” can be such a loaded question. “How do you spend your time?” is a much more compassionate thing to ask, because you can just enthuse about what you’re writing or how great your cats are or whatever.
Things Lykofos made Phospho believe when they were little
(Follow-up this this comic strip here)
Eggs aren’t real
Birds are not real, they’re just construct spies for Keranos
The earth is round
Eating too many cookies will make your bones crumbly like cookies (so give them to your sister, she’ll throw them away for you)
Heliod sees EVERYTHING you’ve ever done under the sun, even that embarrassing moment. Yep, that one. He’ll also tell your sister everything if she asked about it
Summary: A time in-between where the twins get to catch up the lost time a little.
Waking up was an odd experience. It felt like coming out of a long and terrible dream. Lykofos almost believed so: the sunlight filtered through the window of her room, lighting up the dust specks floating in the air, and the mattress under her felt soft and warm.
She had been cold and numb for years. Now, she could feel the soreness from injuries and overexerted muscles and the comfort of a cozy bed.
Lykofos heard the sound of bed sheets rustling and turned her head towards it. The proof that it wasn’t just a bad dream: there was her brother, wincing as he woke up, the three claw marks that scarred his right eye twisting with his brow. Gold eyes identical to hers stared back at her.
“Hey, baby bro,” Lykofos greeted him with a sleep-laced voice.
“Not a baby,” he grumbled back childishly.
“Better be born first next time then,” she quipped.
But her brother was right. No matter how much he’d still be her littlest brother, he didn’t look much like it anymore. His features have become squarer, stronger, and there was something more… grounded about his looks. Like true maturity, and not the mask he wore because he had to be the responsible champion of Heliod everyone expected him to be. Phospho was an actual man now, not a twenty-something hero figuring out half his stuff as he went along.
Can someone be proud and heartbroken at the same time? Because Lykofos couldn’t explain what she felt with any other words. How she wished that she were there to see all the milestones her brother reached, yet so glad that even without her he managed just fine.
“Please tell me this isn’t a dream," whispered Phospho with a hint of fearful hope.
"Would dream-me be honest or try to convince you this wasn’t a dream if you were dreaming?" Lykofos couldn’t help but answer with.
Her brother gave her at flat look. "I'm definitely awake. I could never dream up how annoying you really can be."
"You came home just yesterday and that’s how you talk to me? How about a 'I missed you'? 'I love you'? 'You are the smarter, funnier, and sexier twin'?"
"I'm so happy you’re back," Phospho simply said with watery, shaky voice.
Not a baby anymore. But still her baby brother always.
"Yeah… I’m really happy you’re back too," Lykofos answered back with a smile.
Damn, were her eyes getting wet? She’d rather not unpack all her trauma right now, so she decided to masterfully compartimentalize all that mess away and focus on other things like…
"So, how are you feeling?" she asked her brother.
"Like I died three times and then came back to life," he deadpanned.
"Sounds fun."
"Not really. Wouldn’t recommend it. I’d give it zero stars."
By the gods, she missed his dry humour so much. It would also be soooooo embarrassing if she started crying now because it would make things incredibly awkward and she had an image to maintain. So instead of embarrassing herself, she’ll do what she’s best at: embarrassing her baby bro.
"So… you shacked up while I was gone. Congrats, baby bro." She faked wiping her tears (though if she used this as an opportunity to wipe actual tears, no one but her would know). “It seemed like yesterday I had to break up with Lydia for you because you were too chicken to it yourself."
"Please don’t remind me of that," Phospho groaned while hiding his face in his pillow.
"Is that why your relationship with Kiasi lasted that long? Because I wasn’t there to get you out of it?" Lykofos couldn’t help but keep teasing. "Blink thrice if you’re held against your will."
"You’re so funny," he grumbled. "Actually, I was the one to make the first move. Took a lot to convince them to date me too." He lifted his head, froze for second, then gently picked up a deep red rose from his bed. When did that get there?
The look that then crossed Phospho's face could only be described as tooth-achingly smitten. His gaze seemed lost in a daydream and his smile was small yet unbearably fond.
"You made the first move, huh," said Lykofos.
"They’re just…" he sighed, "unlike anyone else." He brought the rose closer to his face, holding it with two hands.
"Yeah, if they can make you act like a lovestruck teenager, they sure are something else," his sister noted with a bit of disbelief at what she was seeing.
But it wasn’t only that, was it? Kiasi saved them both. Went through hell—literally—to do it even. They pulled a miracle to save her brother and, unlike Lykofos, managed bargain with a god without having to lose all their memories. That’s loyalty even Heliod would respect, and probably the reason why he even considered temporarily giving them the title of champion (though Kiasi would absolutely be disgusted if they heard that).
And they also saved me. Even when I was a stranger to them. Even when I said it was my choice to serve to Erebos. Even when I was trying to kill them and their companions. They hate the gods so much yet show kindness to their champions with the same strength. Also, the nyxborn witch aesthetic is on point, so extra credits for that.
"It’s not just that…" Phospho tried to explain.
At that moment, a knock could be heard at their door, followed by Kiasi's voice asking if they could come in. And sure, using light-related idioms with Phospho was always on the nose, but Lykofos couldn’t describe the look on her brother's face as other than "radiant."
"Looks like your sweetheart is there," Lykofos said. "Sadly, you’ll have to wait until later to wax poetics about them to me."
If anyone deserved this kind of happiness, it would be her baby brother.
————
Later, as Lykofos went down the stairs with David…
Screw this. She takes it all back. This is too much. Thank the gods she never has to deal with her brother's love life ever again.
Summary: Aravi has a nightmare and Iosi (kinda) helps.
Some nights, I would still get nightmares from that day or that other one. My memories and Nouille's sometimes blend together like that. But every time, that evil man would be there. Everyone would be running or swimming away, but no one would ever be quick enough. He would destroy everything: burn down the houses, wreck the underwater caves, then pick off friends and neighbours one by one.
Sometimes, I wake up before the evil man gets to me. I would try to cry quietly so I wouldn’t wake up aba or dad. Sometimes, either one, or both, would notice something wrong and come hug me until I fell asleep again. Dad always gave the best hugs—they were warm like baked bread. And aba smelled like flowers and sang me sylvan songs. It made me upset to bother them like that, because they would want to know what I saw in my nightmare, but back then I couldn’t explain them without explaining Nouille, and I didn’t want them to know about Nouille because they might have hated him and wanted to get rid of him…
This time, in my nightmare, I was trying to call for aba and dad. The evil man was getting closer to me, his eyes glowing, that crazy look on his face. He said, "Your parents won’t save you. They left you. They’re never coming back." And I couldn’t help but cry and cry and cry—
"Hey, hey, wake up!" a voice called out, and my eyes opened.
I was breathing hard and fast. I could also feel tears on my face. A woman crouched next to my bed, looking a bit worried. I almost thought she was aba— because of her black hair and sharp eyes—but her eyes were green, not grey, and her mind wasn’t full of love for me like aba's. This was Iosi. She lived in the house while aba went looking for dad.
"Are you okay?" Iosi asked. "You were having a nightmare, I think."
She didn’t seem very comfortable saying this. I also didn’t want to talk about my problems to her, so I kept quiet and stared at my blanket. Aba had sewn flowers on it. It was soft and smelled good, so I wrapped it up tighter around me. The silence then stretched awkwardly for a while.
"So…" Iosi began. "Man, I’m terrible at this kind of stuff."
“Why are you awake?” I asked her telepathically.
"Oh shit! Fuck, I mean shoot! I really need to get used to this. Uh, so I was working on new poisons and didn’t keep track of the time. Your mom has a pretty sweet setup, by the way.”
"Not my mom. They’re my aba," I corrected her.
"Alright, alright, your 'aba.' So how did that even work? Is that why you have weird mind powers?"
"Dad found me. My old parents are gone.”
"Oh. This makes wayyyy more sense."
I then asked Iosi:
"Can I watch you make poisons?"
"Don’t you need to sleep?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Aba would let me watch them make potions. I like the sounds. They’re safe sounds," I explained.
"…I see. Sure, why not. It’s not more dangerous than letting you use a knife."
Iosi stood up and walked to the kitchen. Keeping my blanket wrapped around me, I followed her.
In the kitchen, I saw a lot of glassware, tools and ingredient out on the counters everywhere.
“You need to clean up after. Aba doesn’t like messes,” I projected my thoughts to Iosi.
“I’ll clean up before they come back. It doesn’t make a difference if I do it now or later,” Iosi replied.
I frowned. Aba trusted me with taking care of the house. So I would.
“I can feel you glaring me. Man, you’re such a goody-two-shoes,” Iosi complained. “You’d think little kids wouldn’t give a shit about making a mess.”
“I’m a big girl.”
“You sure are, squirt.”
She was grinding stuff in the mortar and boiling some liquid on the side. The noises of the stone grinding against stone and small bubbles popping soothed me. If I closed my eyes and listened, I could almost imagine aba working in the kitchen and dad cuddling with me on the couch. When was the last time we had dinner together? I missed dad’s smiles and aba’s laugh, the games of hide-and-seek we played, making flower crowns in the garden and walking in the woods…
Slowly, my eyes began to prickle and my eyelids felt heavier and heavier. Right before sleep washed over me, I heard someone whispering: “Good night, squirt.”
