“Appoint yourself captain of the neighborhood watch. Don’t set it up with the national program. The national program won’t let you carry a gun or pursue suspects. Do it in a gated development where your black neighbors — 20 percent of the community — are targets of suspicion afraid of leaving their homes. Drive around in an SUV and keep an eye out for suspicious individuals. Look for young black men, the kind you’ve warned people about, the kind you think “always get away.” Monitor the 7-11. Find someone who “looks like he’s up to no good, or [is] on drugs, or something,” someone “carrying something,” someone “looking about.” Call 911.”—
If you want to kill someone and get away with it, tell the police that he attacked you. Tell them you stepped out of your SUV, because you wanted to look at the name of the street you were on. Tell them the kid jumped you from behind. Even if he didn’t have a criminal record. Even if he was an A and B student. Even if you have 110 pounds on him. Even if he was staying at his father’s fiancé’s house, and carrying Skittles and iced tea he’d bought during half time at the local 7-11.
Do it in a town where the police chief will say without any trace of ironythat his “investigation is color blind and based on the facts and circumstances, not color,” and that he “can say that until I am blue in the face, but, as a white man in a uniform, I know it doesn’t mean anything to anybody.” Kill someone under the jurisdiction of a police chief who’d say that both you and your victim would “probably do things differently” if you both relived that night.
Or a bon-bon, or a truffle, or an Oreo, or a hot steamy cup-o-joe.
I am so much more than that.
I am sunlight, and gold, I am the deep dark of infinite space, I am polished precious onyx, I am the bright light and heat of poured magma, I am the whole Earth from the base of its foundation past the roof of its sky. I am flower petals and moon beams. And who said all this shit couldn’t be just as delicious as Cocoa Puffs or Cookie Crisps or whatever the fuck John Q Public decided to call me today because for some reason I am not allowed to be alabaster, or porcelain, or crimson tinted like the rest of the ones so beautiful poems just had to be written about them. That is not to say that I do not like to be seen as a honeyed delicious thing. But if the other girls can be ivory and marble in addition to peaches and cream, then so can I. If you look at me and the only thing you can see is a candy bar, then I believe you have stumbled upon the wrong bitch. I don’t know who you think I am but if you expect me to be flattered and spread my legs when you can’t even spread your vocab, you’ve got another thing coming.
“Sack-man and Throbbin.”—GUISE. SACK-MAN AND THROBBIN. Only using these terms when writing romance novels for the rest of my life. I think this is from “Happy Endings” but I could be wrong…it was a gif, a gif from Gawd.
“We’ve heard the 911 calls. We seen the 13 year old witness. We’ve read the letter from the alleged killer’s father. We listened to the anger of the family’s attorney. We’ve felt the pain of Trayvon’s mother. For heaven’s sake, for 24 hours he was a deceased John Doe at the hospital because even the police couldn’t believe that maybe he LIVES in the community. There are still some facts to figure out. There are still some questions to be answered. But, let’s be clear. Let’s be very, very clear. Before the neighborhood watch captain, George Zimmerman, started following him against the better judgement of the 911 dispatcher. Before any altercation. Before any self-defense claim. Before Travyon’s cries for help were heard on the 911 tapes. Before the bullet hit him dead in the chest. Before all of this. He was suspicious. He was suspicious. Suspicious. And you know, like I know, it wasn’t because of the hoodie or the jeans or the sneakers. Cause I had on that same outfit yesterday and no one called 911 saying I was just wandering around their neighborhood. It was because of one thing and one thing only. Trayvon is black.”—
Dr. Who and Torchwood fan here. I'm not a rabid fan though, so forgive me if I get some details wrong. Jack isn't an alien. Jack was one of the Doctor's companions, and he got killed, but Rose when got sucked into the Tardis and became part of its heart, she ressurected Jack with the timy-wimy stuff that makes the Doctor regenerate. Thanks to the timy-wimy stuff, Jack is now immortal.
Ahhhhhhh that makes sense. Cracking the mysteries of the universe one tumblr post at a time.
about more than 85% of survivors of rape knowing their attacker and how, according to fucking Cosmo, that should remind us all to really know a guy before we’re alone with him. I want to go on a fifty minute rant about how that’s complete bullshit because plenty of people are…
crossbeats asked: I’m sure you’ll be able to reach far more people than I would, but if anyone is interested in donating to help Trayvon Martin’s family pay legal fees they can contact Attorney Jasmine Rand at (850) 222-3333 on Monday.
APPARENTLY I had a two page outline/paper thing due in class today which I did not realize until people in my class who ACTUALLY CARE AND WANT TO DO THIS NONSENSE FOR A LIVING posted on my wall late at night in despair because they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing and I saw said posts this morning. Obviously I start panicking and trying to pull together some POS at work before this class at 11:00. Then I check my e-mail.
I am on me knees praising the gods of Slacker Students and Procrastination.
“The attempt by Republican men to wrestle American women back into chastity belts has not only breathed life into President Obama, it has roused and riled Hillary. And that could turn out to be the most dangerous thing the wildly self-destructive G.O.P. leaders have done.”—
“A popular exercise among High School creative writing teachers in America is to ask students to imagine they have been transformed, for a day, into someone of the opposite sex, and describe what that day might be like. The results, apparently, are uncannily uniform. The girls all write long and detailed essays that clearly show they have spent a great deal of time thinking about the subject. Half of the boys usually refuse to write the essay entirely. Those who do make it clear they have not the slightest conception what being a teenage girl might be like, and deeply resent having to think about it.”—
David Graeber, “Beyond Power/Knowledge: An Exploration of Power, Ignorance and Stupidity” (pdf)
He also says much the same thing in “Revolutions in Reverse,” an essay included in the book Revolutions in Reverse (which can be read in Scribd at the link). I’d been meaning to post a quote from the second source for a while, thanks to Aaron Brady for the actual excerpt above. That last link is a good essay on the recent Rush Limbaugh BS and how patriarchy works and how male privilege is defended by having men like Limbaugh around to keep women’s opinions out of the allowed discourse on the subject. To keep high school boys forever unable to write essays that could relate to the issue of needing hormonal birth control to control ovarian cysts.
We talked about this a lot this year in English. Girls are taught from a young age that we have to connect to what we read, so when we do excercises in class, everyone talks about how they connect to Huck Finn, or to Jay Gatsby, or to Julius Caesar. We connect to all the characters because we have to, because if we don’t then we won’t survive through the years of school.
Boys don’t deal with this. Practically every book or story they encounter from the time they begin school is full of male characters and written by men. So when confronted with female characters of female authors, they don’t know what to do. They feel as if they can’t connect with these characters because of the gender boundaries. As one woman in my class pointed out, “girls have to connect to male characters, but boys don’t have to connect to female characters.” By the time they’re my age, it’s not even intentional: many honestly think that they won’t understand a female character because they have no shared experiences whatsoever.