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rainbowfic2013-08-10 02:14 am
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2013-08-10 02:14 am
Summertime Blues 13, Nile Green 9: Quinceañera
Author: Kat
Title: Quinceañera
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Summertime blues 13 (Lacrimae Rerum), nile green 9 (Faience) with shadowsong's paint-by-numbers (Many beautiful things are fragile, and many fragile things are beautiful.)
Supplies and Materials: Graffiti (Midsummer Night's Dream prompt), fingerpainting (god I hate first person), fabric (a close up flower (I think)), oils (and then things get a little fuzzy),
Word Count: 656
Rating: PG
Summary: The worst thing Charlotte's grandmother ever did. At least, to Charlotte.
Warnings: racism, guys. Seriously so. NANCY HENNESSY IS WORSE THAN YOU THOUGHT.
Notes: Regarding this story: please recall that I am a pasty white upper-middle-class English-speaking girl. If I have fucked something up regarding cultures or languages that are not my own, please, please, PLEASE tell me so I can fix it.
For the Lint Roller post, Kelly asked Charlotte "What is the worst thing someone has ever done for you with good intentions?"
My grandmother has done many terrible things to me, in the name of doing me a favor. It is only recently that I have begun to realize how terrible some of them were.
I knew, for example, that forbidding me and my siblings to speak Spanish was her attempt to elevate us in the world—never mind that we were Hennessys, that we were extremely rich, and that more or less everyone feared Miranda enough to respect me and Jack. I knew that her constant attempts to make me look more "white" was how she expressed affection for me—she loved me, in a peculiar way, and she wanted me to be happy, and she thought the only way that could happen was if I was white. Thanks to her—and, to be fair, some others—it was years before I could like myself as I am.
I think really though that the worst thing she ever did to me was my flowers.
I'd just turned fifteen, you see, the day before this. I don't remember where Mama and Papa were—on a shoot, perhaps, or at a première. The flowers arrived while they were gone, at any rate, and Grandmother Hennessy was there, I don't remember why, and she picked them up and smiled.
"How lovely," she said. "Miranda, these must be for you."
Miranda wasn't paying attention, and anyway I was sure they were for me. They were towering and white and full of lovely heavy scents—white dahlias, I think, though I'm not sure—and I knew they were from mi abuela and the rest of my family in Mexico. I'd just had my fifteenth birthday, after all. In a few weeks school would be over and we would go to Mexico for my quinceañera, just as we'd done when Miranda turned fifteen, and they had sent her white flowers too. So I got up from the piano and went to take them.
Grandmother Hennessy turned away when she saw me coming and set them down in front of Miranda. "Your flowers," she said. "From a boyfriend?"
Miranda looked up then, and frowned. "I don't have a boyfriend," she said. "They're for Carlita."
Grandmother Hennessy frowned. "For Charlotte?" She looked at me, then plucked the card from the bouquet and read it. "This is in Spanish."
She said Spanish like she always did, full of contempt and a little fear.
"It's from mi abuela," I said. "For my quinceañera."
"Speak English," Grandmother Hennessy snapped.
I glanced at Miranda, who rolled her eyes and said, "From our grandmother for her fifteenth birthday." A quinceañera means quite a bit more than that, of course, but Miranda didn't bother trying to explain. We both knew better. "Give Carlita her flowers already."
Grandmother Hennessy looked at the card for another moment, then shook her head. "No," she said, and ripped the card in two.
I was too shocked to do anything. I think Miranda might have been as well. But I remember the crash of the vase shattering on the floor, and I remember the way the stems snapped and crunched when Grandmother Hennessy stepped on them.
"You really shouldn't accept gifts from them," Grandmother Hennessy was saying, but then Miranda was on her feet and screaming and I... I can't remember anything else except my flowers, and the way the petals turned bruised and brown, and how long I knelt on the floor, trying to rescue them.
I know she meant well, in her own twisted way. I know she wanted me to be like she was, like my father's cousins, like Miranda and Jack. She wanted me to be the sweet little white granddaughter she'd always wanted, the one who would never have any trouble, the one who would slot seamlessly into high society and someday marry a nice little rich white boy and have nice little rich white children. She wanted my life to be like hers had been. Easy. Privileged. Uncomplicated.
It's ungenerous of me, I know. But I still hate her for my flowers.
Title: Quinceañera
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Summertime blues 13 (Lacrimae Rerum), nile green 9 (Faience) with shadowsong's paint-by-numbers (Many beautiful things are fragile, and many fragile things are beautiful.)
Supplies and Materials: Graffiti (Midsummer Night's Dream prompt), fingerpainting (god I hate first person), fabric (a close up flower (I think)), oils (and then things get a little fuzzy),
Word Count: 656
Rating: PG
Summary: The worst thing Charlotte's grandmother ever did. At least, to Charlotte.
Warnings: racism, guys. Seriously so. NANCY HENNESSY IS WORSE THAN YOU THOUGHT.
Notes: Regarding this story: please recall that I am a pasty white upper-middle-class English-speaking girl. If I have fucked something up regarding cultures or languages that are not my own, please, please, PLEASE tell me so I can fix it.
For the Lint Roller post, Kelly asked Charlotte "What is the worst thing someone has ever done for you with good intentions?"
My grandmother has done many terrible things to me, in the name of doing me a favor. It is only recently that I have begun to realize how terrible some of them were.
I knew, for example, that forbidding me and my siblings to speak Spanish was her attempt to elevate us in the world—never mind that we were Hennessys, that we were extremely rich, and that more or less everyone feared Miranda enough to respect me and Jack. I knew that her constant attempts to make me look more "white" was how she expressed affection for me—she loved me, in a peculiar way, and she wanted me to be happy, and she thought the only way that could happen was if I was white. Thanks to her—and, to be fair, some others—it was years before I could like myself as I am.
I think really though that the worst thing she ever did to me was my flowers.
I'd just turned fifteen, you see, the day before this. I don't remember where Mama and Papa were—on a shoot, perhaps, or at a première. The flowers arrived while they were gone, at any rate, and Grandmother Hennessy was there, I don't remember why, and she picked them up and smiled.
"How lovely," she said. "Miranda, these must be for you."
Miranda wasn't paying attention, and anyway I was sure they were for me. They were towering and white and full of lovely heavy scents—white dahlias, I think, though I'm not sure—and I knew they were from mi abuela and the rest of my family in Mexico. I'd just had my fifteenth birthday, after all. In a few weeks school would be over and we would go to Mexico for my quinceañera, just as we'd done when Miranda turned fifteen, and they had sent her white flowers too. So I got up from the piano and went to take them.
Grandmother Hennessy turned away when she saw me coming and set them down in front of Miranda. "Your flowers," she said. "From a boyfriend?"
Miranda looked up then, and frowned. "I don't have a boyfriend," she said. "They're for Carlita."
Grandmother Hennessy frowned. "For Charlotte?" She looked at me, then plucked the card from the bouquet and read it. "This is in Spanish."
She said Spanish like she always did, full of contempt and a little fear.
"It's from mi abuela," I said. "For my quinceañera."
"Speak English," Grandmother Hennessy snapped.
I glanced at Miranda, who rolled her eyes and said, "From our grandmother for her fifteenth birthday." A quinceañera means quite a bit more than that, of course, but Miranda didn't bother trying to explain. We both knew better. "Give Carlita her flowers already."
Grandmother Hennessy looked at the card for another moment, then shook her head. "No," she said, and ripped the card in two.
I was too shocked to do anything. I think Miranda might have been as well. But I remember the crash of the vase shattering on the floor, and I remember the way the stems snapped and crunched when Grandmother Hennessy stepped on them.
"You really shouldn't accept gifts from them," Grandmother Hennessy was saying, but then Miranda was on her feet and screaming and I... I can't remember anything else except my flowers, and the way the petals turned bruised and brown, and how long I knelt on the floor, trying to rescue them.
I know she meant well, in her own twisted way. I know she wanted me to be like she was, like my father's cousins, like Miranda and Jack. She wanted me to be the sweet little white granddaughter she'd always wanted, the one who would never have any trouble, the one who would slot seamlessly into high society and someday marry a nice little rich white boy and have nice little rich white children. She wanted my life to be like hers had been. Easy. Privileged. Uncomplicated.
It's ungenerous of me, I know. But I still hate her for my flowers.
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I don't think you were ungenerous at all, Charlotte!
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*snuggles the dried flower heads of her green roses because REALLY THIS MADE ME OW SO*
And Charlotte's just so... Charlotte. About it.
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