1.intro
Racism mainly appears in the form of negative attitudes towards non-ethnic Russian citizens, immigrants, or tourists, and negative actions against them by some. Traditionally, Russian racism includes hostility towards the various largest ethnic groups, numbering over 11.6 million. Due to the country’s declining population and the low and high of ethnic Russians, the country has tried to increase immigration to the country in the last decade, which has led to millions of migrants flowing into Russia from many other locations, many of whom are illegal and remain undocumented. Under serious police pressure, the number of racist acts started to increase due to xenophobia and antisemitism around the time of the 1950s.
“Tiger tiger burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame the fearful symmetry..′
The poem comes unwanted, and it distracts me. I miss a block, and I get shoved and fly back-first into the wall behind me. I crash into the brick wall of the inner outside hallways that remind me of Venice. “Shift your ideals, little girl, or you’ll get worse; get her in.”
The voice belonged to many of the sleazy men and women against my ideals, and as I struggled, they tied my hands behind my back and pushed me into a van that I crashed into with a slam. I look back and wonder what would happen to me.
It was just after the 1900s, and I see it all over the Tele: racism, sexism, homophobia, activism, xenophobia, and I am all drawn into fear, and the government is where most of it angers me.
I question if this is how Jesus wanted us to live, if this was how god wanted us to live. Even now, I question if this is where I end. I can’t help but wonder if my run of luck is all that kept me alive...Of course, by reading this, you’d either be with me or against me. I can’t blame you for jumping into my ideology; I slipped it into it, too.o
But the difference here is you don’t know me, and how could you?
You didn’t see what I saw, or else you would know me....
THE SERENE ROSE AT MOONLIGHT
I come home pissed, covering my bruises, 23 years of dealing with carrying the 80s and 90s on my back. I step in and look around the house, and spy the time my brother is still at school himself, my brother is a successful college student back in Italy, I’m sure he could do something for the many individuals that are against my calling if you can call it that, but my pride would easily crucify me if I go letting my big brother fight my battles for me, I wince and I can hear
sirens going off in the distance and walk over and collapsed my black haired self on the bed with an “ugh anubis kill me I am one bad decision away from being on the Fuckin news ” and I groan as my body screams at me for such a dumb action. My cups rose, and a sigh left my lungs. I reach up and turn on the radio I got for my twenty-first birthday; it’s still fairly new to me, but I’m feeling really low, like I’m ready to cry because of today.
I wince from the punches and knees and kicks to my ribcage, and I reach down for my acoustic guitar;r, though I’m accustomed to most strings, I prefer the guitar. I don’t know, something about the country vibe always got me, and it lifts me as much as the Italian violin. As soon as Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine” starts playing on my radio, I slightly smile as I hear the tune; her guitar was beautiful to me, so naturally, I take up my guitar and start to follow along as the radio plays.
I play it deep, hitting the acoustics perfectly, remembering the world before I became an activist, before I moved to Kazan. When I lived with my family, and Kaliya, my best friend and sister, and my brother Ciaran lived together for 11 years, but after the witch hunts began in Italy, things got scary. Words such as independence, Judgements, Racism, Sexism, and control, segregation became frightening, and even understanding too much would get you excommunicated, or worse.
Sadly, it wasn’t long after moving into an orphanage home that my best friend Kali, my brother Ciaran, and I were separated, but for the time, it was worth it. A girl and a guy, Krystile, that was her name here, and Sarah was her real name, and Judas...Judas was his real name, his blood name, and Jason was his name, Jase, he was....wow, Judas and Sarah were Italian; they were
also Egyptian. I keep listening to the double acoustics of Deanna Carter and my strumming; it’s strange. I’m an Italian 23-year-old youngblood girl in the city of Kazan, Russia, deported, aka exiled, for association with a witch. I’m forced to start life over with no help from Ciaran or Kali, but I don’t know if he’s alive. I have a feeling in my head and heart that says so, but I don’t know how real it is. Witness protection is a strange thing; it protects everyone but the victim, which means
I can’t help but be slightly depressed-all these complications when all I want to do is play music, live with my family. I even had to change my name, Setsune Marie, sounds like a secret agent name, ic. Talk about a secret identity, right? You don’t know my real name; it’s Selena. Selena Lux Raveneye Night, and I will always love my name and keep the name I’m given.
I sigh, listening to the lyrics, and start to tear up, but I blink it away, and I keep playing, listening to the memories these songs bring.
An image comes up from deep in my subconscious of how I learned to play the guitar,
I remember practicing on the side of Rialto bridge over the Grand Canal and playing music while watching the grand canal, I remember it fondly while my brother was at home, practicing his magecraft so I went and played I knew rock songs from Kansas, buffalo Springfield, guns n roses, plenty that I had a nack to play, and people admired it, I didn’t get much- stripper singles I think they were called, but on my start of playing “runaround ” by blues travelers, Kaliya my
now best friend showed an interest and added her harmonics and we synched and that was all she wrote. We made a killing and even played at a few bars around Venice. Music made my memories, made me friendships, and brought my story to life. It was music like what I’m listening to now that is writing my story, and it’s music that keeps time moving on.
Playing on an acoustic guitar to country from the northwest, so much chaos but so serene. Near the end of the song, I was singing as high as my Italian vocals could give, and as I finished, I could hear my roommates across the way giving me praise. It’s funny what my life would be like if I hadn’t been deported from Italy. With a sigh, I look outside my window at the driving cars and the people. The world seems to hurt so much, and all I can do is defend it with whatever I learned from my Kin.
“Ciaran, lend me your ability to adapt; Kaliya, give me your patience. I will find you even if I have to go through the law to do it...” I say, and look down at the park outside my dorm building at a family down below at a nearby park. It's funny for the first time since traveling to this city; I wipe a tear away. I feel so alone. Yes, music has a way to bring your world to light...and also it has a tendency at times to break you.
