Hundreds gather to pray for county
'When you look around this room, it is all about unity,' Ashtabula Concerts of Prayer Board President Janie Gildersleeve said as she got the event rolling. The event was the 35th concerts of prayer breakfast that has included speakers ranging from professional athletes to Christian's with a unique life experience.
She urged those in attendance to continue the prayer into next week and beyond.
'It shouldn't end today,' Gildersleeve said.
Eight area residents were chosen to pray for eight different aspects of society, which included churches, the economy, education and youth, families and community, first responders and law enforcement, the military, medical facilities and health care and addiction and homelessness.
A video detailing the power of prayer in the family of Rev. Curtis Cecil. The video brought to life the real life story of his daughter, Dakota, who was in a terrible crash on March 10, 2024.
Cecil said, in the video, the family did not know if their daughter would live or day for the first 20 days and then what her life might be like if she survived.
He credited prayer, and God's sovereignty, with putting the right medical personnel in close access to the crash scene that helped save her life.
Roman Vencill prayed for the economy and area business, and Rev. Tim Kraus prayed for area churches.
James Kimmerle prayed for the military, saying our young men and women perform as the 'tip of the spear' to protect our freedoms. He said he prays daily for his two sons presently serving in the military.
'My legs are out in my car,' Gordon Mapley, who lost parts of both his legs in 2014 after a still unknown disease attacked his body, said. He now has prothesis that he uses, but did not Friday morning.
Mapley detailed how he believes his two sons and himself would not be alive if it were not for the power of prayer. Mapley added he spent seven and a half months in the hospital and the prayers of people from all over the country, and the world, sustained him.
'I was not expected to live,' Mapley said. He said he had been a Christian for about 50 years, but did not have the experiential challenge of facing such a major life experience which helped his faith grow.
Mapley said his son, Andrew also started to have seizures at the age of 36, and his son, Peter had a heart attack at 43.
'Both of my sons and I are here because of prayer and nobody will ever convince me otherwise,' Mapley said.
Mapley said he spent 40 years working in college administration until his retirement in 2019.
He also said he doesn't know why some prayer requests don't seem to be answered, but God wants us to always to bring our requests to him.
'All I know is God wants us to be faithful,' Mapley said.
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Los Angeles Times
6 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
Jim Crow meets ICE at ‘Alligator Alcatraz'
A few years ago I came across a profoundly unnerving historical photo: A lineup of terrified, naked Black babies cowered over the title 'Alligator Bait.' As it turned out, the idea of Black babies being used as alligator bait was a beloved trope dating back to the antebellum South, though it didn't really take off until after the Civil War. The image I saw was created in 1897, just one year after Plessy vs. Ferguson established 'separate but equal' as the foundational doublespeak of segregation. With formerly enslaved people striking out and settling their own homesteads, the prevailing stereotypes deployed to justify violence against Black people were forced to evolve. We were no longer simple and primitive, in desperate need of the civilizing stewardship of white Christian slave owners. After emancipation, we became dangerous, lazy and worthless. Worth less, in fact, than the chickens more commonly used to bait alligators. White Floridians in particular so fell in love with the concept of alligators hungry for Black babies that it birthed an entire industry. Visitors to the Sunshine State could purchase souvenir postcards featuring illustrations of googly-eyed alligators chasing crying Black children. There was a popular brand of licorice called 'Little African,' with packaging that featured a cartoon alligator tugging playfully at a Black infant's rag diaper. The tagline read: 'A Dainty Morsel.' Anglers could buy fishing lures molded in the shape of a Black baby protruding from an alligator's mouth. You get the idea. When I first learned of all this, naturally, I was unmoored. I was also surprised that I'd never heard of the alligator bait slur. Why doesn't it sit alongside the minstrel, the mammy and the golliwog in our cultural memory of racist archetypes? Did it cross some unspoken line with the vulgarity of its violence? Perhaps this particular dog whistle was a tad too audible? Or was it the plausible deniability? Did people (including historians) wave it away because babies were never 'really' used as alligator bait? It's true that beyond the cultural ephemera — which includes songs (such as the ragtime tune 'Mammy's Little Alligator Bait') and mechanical alligator toys that swallow Black babies whole, over and over again — there are apparently no surviving records of Black babies sacrificed in this way. No autopsy reports, no court records proving that anyone was apprehended and convicted of said crime. But of course, why would there be? The thing I found so unnerving about the alligator bait phenomenon wasn't its literal veracity. There's no question human beings are capable of that and far worse. Without a doubt, 'civilized' people could find satisfaction — or comfort, or justice, or opportunity — in the violent slaughter of babies. Donald Trump's recently posted AI clip 'Trump Gaza,' which suggests the real world annihilation of Palestinians will give way to luxury beachfront resorts, is a shining example. The thing that haunted me about alligator bait was the glee with which the idea was embraced. It was funny. Cute. Harmless. Can't you take a joke? Now here we are, 100 years after 'Mammy's Little Alligator Bait,' and the bigots are once again using cartoon alligators to meme-ify racial violence, this time against immigrants. Just like the title 'Alligator Bait,' the Florida detention center name 'Alligator Alcatraz' serves multiple ends: It provokes sadistic yuks. It mocks. It threatens. But most crucially, it dehumanizes. 'Alligator Bait' suggests that Black people are worthless. By evoking the country's most infamous prison, 'Alligator Alcatraz' frames the conversation as one about keeping Americans safe. It suggests the people imprisoned there are not vulnerable and defenseless men and women; anyone sent to 'Alligator Alcatraz' must be a criminal of the worst sort. Unworthy of basic human rights. Fully deserving of every indignity inflicted upon them. 'Alligator Alcatraz' cloaks cruelty in bureaucratic euphemism. It's doublespeak, masking an agenda to galvanize a bloodthirsty base and make state violence sound reasonable, even necessary. It has nothing to do with keeping Americans safe. Oft-cited studies from Stanford, the Libertarian Cato Institute, the New York Times and others have shown conclusively that immigrants, those here legally and illegally, are significantly less likely to commit violent crimes than their U.S.-born neighbors. If those behind 'Alligator Alcatraz' cared at all about keeping Americans safe, they wouldn't have just pushed a budget bill that obliterates our access to healthcare, environmental protection and food safety. If they actually cherished the rule of law, they would not deny immigrants their constitutionally guaranteed right to due process. If they were truly concerned about crime, there wouldn't be a felon in the White House. As souvenir shops and Etsy stores flood with 'Alligator Alcatraz' merch, it's worth noting that none of it is played for horror. Like the cutesy alligator bait merchandise before it, these aren't monster-movie creatures with blazing eyes and razor-sharp, blood-dripping teeth. The 'Alligator Alcatraz' storefront is cartoon gators slyly winking at us from under red baseball caps: It's just a joke, and you're in on it. And it's exactly this cheeky, palatable, available-in-child-sizes commodification that exposes the true horror for those it targets: There will be no empathy, no change of heart, no seeing of the light. Dear immigrants of America: Your pain is our amusement. The thing I keep wondering is, would this cheekiness even be possible if everyone knew the alligator bait history, the nastiness of which was buried so deep that 'Gator bait' chants echoed through the University of Florida stadium until 2020? Would they still chuckle if they saw the century-old postcards circulated by people who 'just didn't know any better'? My cynical side says: Yeah, probably. But my strategic side reminds me: If history truly didn't matter, it wouldn't be continuously minimized, rewritten, whitewashed. There's truth in the old idiom: Knowledge is power. Anyone trying to keep knowledge from you, whether by banning books, gutting classrooms, denying identities or burying facts, is only trying to disempower you. That's why history, as painful as it often is, matters. Remembering the horror of alligator bait isn't about dwelling on the grotesque. It's about recognizing how cruelty gets coded into culture. 'Alligator Alcatraz' is proof that alligator bait never went away. It didn't evolve or get slicker. It's the same old, tired cruelty, rebranded and aimed at a new target. The goal is exactly the same: to manufacture consent for suffering and ensure the most vulnerable among us know where they stand — as props, as bait, as punchlines. And no joke is more vulgar than one mocking the pain of your neighbors, whether they were born in this country or not. Ezra Claytan Daniels is a screenwriter and graphic novelist whose upcoming horror graphic novel, 'Mama Came Callin',' confronts the legacy of the alligator bait trope.
Buzz Feed
14 hours ago
- Buzz Feed
I Was Raised In Purity Culture. Then I Began Wearing A Secret Purchase Under My Clothes.
I met my husband in college, and we dated for five years prior to our wedding. I brought a whole host of fear-based ideas about sexuality to our marriage. Due to purity culture, which primarily targeted girls in the 1990s with a message that their sexual purity was their most prized asset, I could not help but believe a crown of stars awaited me if I stayed a virgin, possibly until death. In my all-girl Catholic high school theology class, we had learned virginity was a gift. We were told to imagine our sexual purity as a beautifully wrapped present. If we ever felt pressured to give in to the sexual advances of our male counterparts, we were to consider what it would be like to hand our future spouse a gift with tattered wrapping paper and bedraggled ribbons. As I entered college and wrestled with my faith, the book I Kissed Dating Goodbye, written by a young pastor named Joshua Harris, caused a huge splash in Christian circles. It offered what he called a blueprint for a successful courtship that would lead to marriage and encouraged heterosexual couples to limit physical contact until the male partner was prepared to ask for the female's hand in marriage. Then sex would be blessed by God. Then sex would be safe. Prior to our engagement, I had converted to my soon-to-be husband's faith, and together we attended Bible studies and spent whole weekends with our church community. I gave away my jewelry and dressed modestly. I hoped that God would look fondly on our relationship and that once we were married, all of my worries and fears about sex and sexuality would vanish. However, the problem with a belief system that positions one's sexuality as God-given and God-approved but which can only be shared in a committed heterosexual marriage is that it's entirely transactional. Who am I as a sexual being, irrespective of my future partner(s)? was never a question I was encouraged to ask or explore before my wedding. I was given 'a gift,' I was to keep it wrapped and then I would supposedly enjoy it once I got married. The formula prescribed by purity culture did not deliver the results I expected. Committing to abstinence required me to see sex as a toxic substance outside of marriage, and there was no guidance for shifting that narrative on my wedding night. I went from being a virginal bride to one who had no idea about the mechanics of sex, what my body was capable of, what I desired, what felt good or how to communicate any of this to my partner. Once I was married, I was constantly paranoid that I was not having enough sex and that I was doing it wrong when I was having it. None of this messaging came from my husband. It was simply the byproduct of all the troubling things I'd been taught my entire life. In church circles, I heard about the importance of good wives making themselves available and pleasing to their spouses. I rarely if ever heard the same for husbands. After our first year of marriage, I became pregnant, and then a year later I became pregnant again. In spite of the grace my husband offered me during our sleepless years, my hang-ups over not having enough sex remained and even intensified. When my children were still young, I took a job teaching at a Bible college in Tennessee. I was surprised at how many of my students married while they were still undergrads. Some of them were barely out of high school. I frequently overheard these young women discussing their two bridal showers: one thrown by elders to receive housewares and another thrown by friends to receive lingerie. It was a two-pronged preparation for the bride that said: Here is what you will need for your home and for your husband. But where was the ritual to prepare a young woman who was not getting married ― but who was still a whole person? I wondered. Does she not still need a cast iron pan? Does she still not deserve beautiful undergarments? I tentatively began to look for answers, but most of the books and podcasts I found in the 2010s that spoke to sexuality within monogamy skirted the issue of female desire. I was still hearing sermons about sexual purity as an absolute, and reading blogs by women who endorsed frequent sex as a safeguard against a husband's infidelity. Then an unlikely source helped me to course correct. I read an account of an American expatriate in France who discovered that French women reportedly spent 20% of their income on lingerie. At first I couldn't believe all of these women were forking over so much money on something that most people would never see, but I realized they were doing it for themselves. To please themselves. To feel good about themselves. I started to amass my own wardrobe of lingerie. I still wore the modest suits of a professor, but underneath were the reminders that I was more than a teacher with sensible shoes. In 2018, Joshua Harris denounced I Kissed Dating Goodbye and publicly apologized for the hurt caused by it. The following year, Lutheran pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber published Shameless, an indictment of the shame-laced ways the church has indoctrinated young people about sexuality. By this point, I was beginning to lose my footing in my own marriage. My husband and I had moved across the country and were navigating new jobs and life with adolescent children. Natural growing pains were surfacing: We were two people who met before our brains were fully developed — before we knew who we truly were. The strains of our life together were pulling us apart. I started to visit social media accounts about lingerie as a way to relieve stress. Learning about the materials, the construction, the history, and the style of the pieces was soothing. I also discovered the women running these accounts, like the French women I'd read about years earlier, wore their lingerie not for a partner but for themselves. They were celebrating their own sexuality. Perhaps this was Victoria's Secret: not that she used a satin chemise to attract but that she kept a ruffle-trimmed slip in her boudoir to remind her of who she was. Seventeen years after we wed, my husband and I met in a courtroom, and, with the stroke of a judge's pen, our relationship was legally dissolved. My marriage was my only significant romantic relationship, and I mourn the familiar rhythms of that life. I am left with countless existential questions about what I do now, what I want... and an expansive wardrobe of lingerie. For the first time in over two decades, I am single. I am not afraid of falling in love again, but I am afraid of abandoning myself to someone else's narrative about who I am. I go on dating apps, sift through pictures of men flexing their muscles and cuddling their dogs, and then I delete the apps. In therapy, I discuss my hang-ups about all of this. 'What is the purpose of dating? For you?' my therapist asks. I do not have a clear answer, but I know those two words, 'for you,' are essential. I am 43 years old and just now beginning to unpack what sex and monogamy mean for me — and not because a pastor or book club defined it for me. I am still a person of deep faith, but I am no longer a member of a church. I am in a season of deconstructing beliefs that have done me far more harm than help. The path forward for me may be paved with rubble, but it is edged with lace and satin. In this new chapter, which I could never have envisioned as a young newlywed, I realize what all these lingerie-loving women I've come across know about intimate apparel: It is a symbol of their superpower. They wear pieces that allow them to simply feel good in their bodies. When we feel good in our bodies, we can talk back to the shame. We can celebrate the marvelous capacity our bodies have to experience desire and pleasure. This is a wondrous thing ― no matter one's size, shape, skin color or creed. Obviously, wearing lingerie is just one of countless ways through which a person can access that freedom, but for me (and many others), it serves as a gentle yet potent reminder of my commitment to seeking the kind of liberation that has eluded me for much too long. Recently I purchased a luxurious royal blue loungewear set. It sits in a gold cardboard box, tied with a matching royal blue ribbon. I have not decided if I will wear the set for a special occasion, like when I find true love again, or simply when I'm having a good hair day. What I do know is that the decision is not one to fear — especially because I am the one making it.
Buzz Feed
a day ago
- Buzz Feed
Sex Workers Share Biggest Client Surprises
Sex workers deal with every conceivable emotion and type of client. However, this doesn't mean they are immune to being surprised by their clients' habits, behaviors, and attitudes... That's why when Redditor u/bannedbooks123 asked, "People who have done sex work, what is something that surprised you?" current and former sex workers took to the comments to share the surprising moments in their careers that left them speechless. From conservative clients to emotional deprivation — here are 17 of their most enlightening responses: "A lot of conservative and Christian men are secretly gay, bi, and into 'humiliation' kinks — yes, even your elected officials." "What surprised me most is that men who have paid for my services have been more respectful than men I have dated." "ONLINE: The young guys love me as a 40-year-old. I have so many Gen Z clients. "I'm a male escort in Japan: Many of my clients are ridiculously attractive, like I wouldn't have thought twice about paying for them. But, they're married to men who have zero interest in them for whatever reason." "That some requests aren't weird, but the specificity makes them weirder. I have a regular who requests five photos of the exact same poses, down to very specific things like how my hands and fingers should be positioned, but in a new outfit each time." "How lonely and emotionally deprived men are. When I was a stripper, this 80-year-old man came in and asked me for a lap dance. When we got to the back, he said, 'I don't want you to grind on me. Just give me a hug.'" "Every client thinks the girls are there for money, being trafficked, etc. But some girls are there only for fun (or public health research, yes, there's one who does that)." "How many of my clients seemed to be addicted to the act of engaging in sex with sex workers. It was almost impossible for some of them to stop, even at the risk of losing their families/homes/jobs. It's definitely another form of addiction." "My friend is a sex worker, they said the most surprising thing is how quickly men can go from having sex with you to 'post-nut clarity' that makes them absolutely furious AT YOU because of what they just did." "I used to offer the 'girlfriend experience' online, and some of my clients were widowers or lonely office workers. I would sext and send them audio messages as if I were their girlfriend: asking if they had eaten, giving them encouragement, and reminding them about appointments. I was clear from the beginning (and it was listed all over my page) that I was playing a character." "I literally can't be bothered to put in effort to have sex or be in a relationship anymore. I haven't shaved my legs and privates, put on makeup, or even had sex since I left the industry three years ago." "I've never done sex work in the usual way. I've only made online content. Something that surprised me was the sheer number of views, positive interactions, and messages I've had." "Just how much hatred there is of sex workers in the media. I hate watching most American sitcoms because of their portrayal of sex work, but it's in almost every TV show you can think of. It's socially acceptable to speak about sex workers as if they're dirty or not human. You can't avoid the stigma because it's everywhere." "I've been an escort for thirteen years, and a lot of things have shocked me. One surprise was how blue-collar/working-class men tip generously, while rich men will try to haggle or short your pay." "That men often have money for sex workers that they don't have for their girlfriends/wives" "It taught me just how awful men can be — some women, too." "No one prepared me for being found by a client in real life." Did any of these stories surprise you? Current and former sex workers, what is something about sex work or your clients that shocked you? Tell us in the comments or answer anonymously using the form below! If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, you can call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-4673 (HOPE), which routes the caller to their nearest sexual assault service provider. You can also search for your local center here.
