“You don’t have to swallow your tears. You don’t have to hide how you feel or ignore your pain. You have to give yourself a hug, look yourself in the eyes, and say, “I’m sad and I’m angry and I’m hurting. And you know what? That’s okay. My feelings are valid. I’m not broken or crazy. I’m wounded. But I can heal. And I’m going to be okay. Maybe not today or tomorrow or a week from now, but sometime soon, this is going to pass. And until it does, I’m going to keep taking care of myself. I’m going to talk back to the negative voice making me feel small and speak to myself with kindness. I’m going to let myself feel my feelings and do self-care. And I’m going to treat myself like a friend. Because if there’s anyone who deserves my love and affection, it’s me.”—Daniell Koepke (via internal-acceptance-movement)
one of the hardest parts about decolonizing for me has been forgiving myself for ever being ashamed of where i come from, what my parents look like, speak like and have worked in order to raise me. i am still forgiving myself.
“When you know who you are, you don’t look to the world to tell you. Similarly, you don’t fear other people since they cannot take anything from you. Your awareness of yourself as you really are is your liberation.”—The Lazy Yogi (via lazyyogi)
please don’t feel bad for not being able to love yourself!
loving yourself is a long and difficult process and it involves a lot of deprogramming yourself from the harmful bullshit that society and people have told you. you shouldn’t be made to feel weak or a failure for struggling with that.
take your time, and when you do feel able to love yourself, it’ll be wonderful and genuine and not a rushed fake thing
“No, I’m not an American. I’m one of the 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the 22 million black people who are the victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy. So, I’m not standing here speaking to you as an American, or a patriot, or a flag-saluter, or a flag-waver—no, not I. I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. And I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare.”—Malcolm X (via arabbara)
Marissa Alexander goes to prison for shooting off a warning shot to keep her husband from abusing her — a shot that hit no one and killed no one and probably saved her life — to serve a 20-year sentence, but Trayvon Martin is killed simply for walking through a neighborhood and his murderer walks out a free man … using the SAME DEFENSE.
If this doesn’t enrage you, you’re not paying fucking attention.
This is what the school-to-prison pipeline looks like. This is how black youth criminalized.
She was doing a science experiment
She’s being charged as an ADULT
She’s being charged with a FELONY
If this all goes the way the prosecution wants, this young woman will be LEGALLY discriminated against for the rest of her life. No voting, housing discrimination, employment discrimination (as if getting a job while black isn’t hard enough), etc. etc.
Here’s the thing: even if she was just fucking around and it made an accidental little bang (the description makes it sound like diet coke and mentos at the worst) she’s a kid. Sixteen years old. She doesn’t deserve prison. She doesn’t even deserve a trial. Give her a detention, maybe charge her if she broke something.
I think the problem is that many people in America think that racism is an attitude. And this is encouraged by the capitalist system. So they think that what people think is what makes them a racist. Racism is not an attitude.
If a white man wants to lynch me, that’s his problem. If he’s got the power to lynch me, that’s my problem. Racism is not a question of attitude; it’s a question of power.
Racism gets its power from capitalism. Thus, if you’re anti-racist, whether you know it or not, you must be anti-capitalist. The power for racism, the power for sexism, comes from capitalism, not an attitude.
You cannot be a racist without power. You cannot be a sexist without power. Even men who beat their wives get this power from the society which allows it, condones it, encourages it. One cannot be against racism, one cannot be against sexism, unless one is against capitalism.
Stokely Carmichael (Kwame Ture) answering a question about racism, sexism, and capitalism.
Black and Undocumented? We Do Exist (Thoughts on Black/Brown Solidarity).
I’m still trying to develop my thoughts around this whole thing, so this is meant to be more of an initial query than my set beliefs. I would love to have a conversation with those who are willing (and maybe I’m just not looking hard enough but it doesn’t seem like many people are willing) and have their own perspectives to add to a dialogue. So.
Black and Undocumented? We Do Exist (Thoughts on Black/Brown Solidarity).
Whenever I fill out a request for demographic info, my hand hovers with uncertainty over ‘African-American,’ though every time it is the box I ultimately check. As someone born in Nigeria yet raised in Texas since the age of 6, I have always struggled with a literal identity at the intersection of African and American, one ironically that the term African-American didn’t quite seem to apply to.
Upon realizing I was undocumented my senior year in high school, I found community in the immigrant rights movement along with other undocumented youth. Though I felt less alone in navigating daily life without papers, through my involvement I’ve carried a different feeling of alienation, one of not seeing many reflections of myself -not only in mainstream media but in the movement I had grown so attached to. I sincerely hope more black immigrant voices are uplifted and included in the larger narrative rather than being rendered invisible as the immigration debate restarts this year.
On my own path to liberation, I can only walk across the bridge that is my lived experience, an experience whose heart beats with kinship for the culture of organizing I have learned in the Latino community, the blanket of brother- and sisterhood I’ve gained from the African-American and Asian/Pacific Islander communities, and the swelling sense of pride stemming from my Nigerian roots.
As a (dark-skinned) black undocumented woman, I am aware that though I am less likely to be profiled as an undocumented immigrant, by virtue of my appearance, I am likely to be racially profiled period – whether it’s at a store, traffic light, or walking down the street. As I learn how to acknowledge the simultaneous privilege and invisibility of being one of the lesser-known stories of the undocumented experience, I also see the damage that results from playing Oppression Olympics with communities of color. We must be careful to avoid rating our own struggles as more important than or even in opposition to the struggles similar minority groups face. It is for this reason that I disagree with the immigrant rights movement self-labeling as the “New Civil Rights Movement” just as much as I disagree with the treatment of undocumented immigrants being equated to the institution of slavery in the United States - we must seek to build solidarity not on literal comparisons of our oppressions but on the acknowledgment of and determination to break down the same systems of power that marginalized us in the first place. Our communities can simultaneously own our unique histories while building solidarity from our shared experiences.
A perfect example of this intersectionality exists in the parallels between the highly privatized criminal justice and immigration detention systems, both of which criminalize communities of color into extended incarceration or extended detention and deportation. All of our communities have a vested interest in coming together to fight back against police brutality, racial profiling, mass incarceration and inhumane detention. These pipelines that are destroying our communities may have different sources but are all connected in method and fueled by the same ideology; after all, it is no surprise that voter suppression, anti-immigrant, and anti-reproductive choice efforts all stem from the same nativist source.
My story is just one of many that results from a broken immigration system badly in need of true reform. My family has been fighting deportation since 2006 and we are due back in court this April 8th. I have not seen my father in 10 years, since he is unable to get a visa to return and I cannot leave without triggering a 10 year ban on coming back, so we maintain a relationship the way too many families are forced to – through long-distance calling cards on static-filled phone lines.
At the end of the day, our experiences are paralleled by our common “otherness,” by that perpetual status of minority and its resulting consequences that reach beyond mere pieces of paper. Our communities have all buckled under the crushing weight of white supremacy, have all experienced the pain and loss brought on by colonization, and have all known – deeply and intimately known – what it means to carry the burden of struggle. Yet our respective histories and triumphs as communities of color need not compete with each other. We do not have to tiptoe around the intersections of race, class and gender on migration, because true transformative justice will only come from working through these issues as communities that are still hurting and healing, rather than avoiding them altogether. That is my vision for true black/brown solidarity.
when you write a really long & heartfelt email while sitting in the heat in your car in front of barnes & noble so you can mooch off their internet & then you send it but should have double checked because it just disappeared into the ethos of the interwebs without leaving a trace or draft or anything in gmail or any sign that you actually cared and you could cry because you want those precious words back and you can’t even remember one line. man, this day is killing me.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
”—Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
“I wrote “Their Eyes Were Watching God” in Haiti. It was dammed up in me, and I wrote it under internal pressure in seven weeks. I wish that I could write it again. in fact, I regret all of my books. It is one of the tragedies of life that one cannot have all the wisdom one is ever to possess in the beginning. Perhaps, it is just as well to be rash and foolish for a while. If writers were too wise, perhaps no books would be written at all. It might be better to ask yourself “Why?” afterwards than before. Anyway, the force from somewhere in Space which commands you to write in the first place, gives you no choice. You take up the pen when you are told, and write what is commanded. There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you.”—Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road (via whereissassy)
“The adoption of activism as a lifestyle rather than a medium for bringing about social change serves to alienate those who do not identify with its idiosyncratic culture. The unspoken rules of what hairstyles, clothing, diet and lifestyle choices are and aren’t acceptable in the activist ghetto are major barriers to those who are interested in the same revolutionary aims but don’t share the lifestyle.”
I think many “activists” (whether they take the term or not) know these general ideas, but I think it is always worth reflection. Not everyone can—or wants to—throw everything down and “live off the spoils of capitalism” by squatting and dumpster diving. Not everyone feels safe in your “safe space” that is actually largely consistent with het/cis/white/male culture. Not everyone will believe in your anarchy when you question their commitment and validity of opinion. Not that questioning has no place—I’m looking at you, internet activists—but not when it comes from a place of superiority.
This might be partially me trying to excuse my hiding away from the world, but then again I shouldn’t have to make myself a combative extrovert to help make change. That being said, I reflect on my privileges and am very aware of how I come at things, which is the essential other half to not putting people (people, not ideas) down. Generally everyone needs more humility. I think the author is correct in saying, “activists should be just that – unknown militants who lend their efforts and their solidarity to struggles wherever they find the opportunity.” And that opportunity can look different for everyone.
“Black women wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and see Black women. White women wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and see women. White men wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and see human beings.”—
Desperate to get back home to babes Whose mouths have not tasted her milk in far too many days, Back to a husband too distraught to brush hair or tie shoelaces, Now unemployed, the nearly empty fridge haunting him in his sleep. He reaches over the pillow and her hand is not there but her heart is. Her heart is, and so she gives in and signs voluntary departure, though no free will is present in the room.
Her apology echoes off the walls as she leaves, Neck forever cramped from looking back to those still caged within Checking that the pieces of herself placed strategically- dignity preserved in the folds of her uniform, strength wrapped tenderly around the steel bars, hope tucked into dusty corners of cement- will keep her comrades company until they too are free.
It’s like they put her on death row With a final order of removal to execute the ghost of her American presence. They didn’t even offer her a final meal, though tonight their own children will eat the tomatoes that her husband picked in the fields for dinner and be satisfied. They will be satisfied, while her own children remain hungry for justice.
Infiltration is such a strong word. But you must learn to hold its heat in your mouth, Press its discomfort into the backs of your teeth, Swish it around until your throat burns from its consequence, Lest they pry it from your lips like they did your native tongue.
In our hands, we hold the umbrellas that keep us in the shadows. But we are too fearful of reclaiming sunlight to let them go, and it is not even raining. It is not even raining yet our thoughts of self-hate strike us like thunder, leaving the faint scent of burnt melanin in its wake.
Our bodies have been stripped of their majesty, And we are now too comfortable being wallflowers. We tiptoe around as if society is a minefield, Yet it is in her heart where she has hidden that grenade, And every “Go Back to Mexico” sends her trembling hand Inching closer to pull that pin and detonate her dreams so she no longer has to defer them.
Infiltration is such a strong word. It’s more like stepping into the future to pay a visit to ourselves Like looking into the mirror and discovering that Your reflection has been deported in your absence.
If there are truly spoils of war, Then we are all the trophies of white supremacy, Generations upon generations of cheap labor Provided by disposable brown bodies that need never reach for the American Dream, because it is an exercise in futility.
Have we come this far, that we can no longer dream in the language of our ancestors?
Have we come this far, that even our dreams are defined by imperialism?
That our self-loathing is tied to our survival?
That our success is couched in Western ideals?
Illegal. I am illegal.
We have to confront the ugly in ourselves if we are ever to overcome it. We have to confront the ugly in our struggle if we are ever to overcome it. We have to confront the ugly in our communities if we are ever to overcome it.
So let us be ugly together.
Let us be ugly together, for ugly pain yields power Like the contractions that come before giving birth. It teaches you how to scream after years of being told you have no voice. Ugly pain refuses to be swept under the rug, to be bribed by gilded handcuffs wrapped in a freedom gift box.
Ugly pain does not forget.
Ugly pain does not forget.
Ugly pain does not forget.
It does not hide the battle scars that are only visible to the battle-weary.
Illegal is such a strong word. But it, too, must come out of the shadows. Though at times we must wrap ourselves in the security blanket and safety of undocumented to survive, It is time to don our illegal suit of armor And prepare to go to war with our internalized hate, Swords of forgiveness raised to the sky, Leaving empty shells of our egos scattered across the battlefield.
No one tells you what happens to the butterfly After that first part of its migration.
No one will say that low priority Is still a priority.
No one will blink an eye when you shout That they are locking us up without a reason.
No one will shake their head if they knew that Private prisons cash in on every immigrant body.
No one will believe you when you explain that Deport Them All is not just a magic trick. It is real.
Deport them all was two suicide attempts for Yanelli Deport them all is a broken tail light for Wanda, is driving while brown for Gustavo, is coughing up blood for Maria. Deport them all is working without papers for Adelaida, is being in the passenger’s seat for Everilda, who was being sent back to Guatemala where her five family members were assassinated, with a target on her back. It is real. It is no magic trick or prophecy. It is today.
And tomorrow, what if we said, deport me instead? Our collective ugly would be beautiful. We could swell jail cells with our capacity, like they rob us short of our humanity. We could offer up our bodies like sacrificial lambs in orange jumpsuits And dare them to feast on their own shame.
And what if we do nothing, Grip our umbrellas tight until our knuckles turn white? Do not let me lose this battle with my own complacency. Do not let me face these demons alone.
Let us be ugly together. So tired from fighting that that only way to stand shoulder to shoulder Is if we lean on each other. Let the blood from my wounds drip into yours and make us family. Let us drill holes in each others pipelines So that yellow and brown and black bodies may breathe shared oxygen.
Let us be ugly together. Let us be ugly for our mothers for whom this country’s beauty has forsaken, for our fathers who leave their dignity behind at home for safekeeping before standing in parking lots for livelihood. And if the callouses on their hands could speak, they would yell, “Pick me! Choose me! Open the door, America. Please, just open the door.”
Let us be ugly together. I’ll show you my pain if you show me your truth. Let us shrug off this cloak of pretense and open the curtains of rhetoric. Let me take your hand in mine and hold it so tight that Our grip will send a message that Enough! Not. One. More.
Let us be ugly together. Let us do it for them, of MICE and women, so that we may one day, do it for ourselves.
I wrote this in 2011, and shared internally, but never published. As I’m really pushing myself to seek honesty & vulnerability through my words, it’s weird & interesting to see where my thinking has evolved & where I’ve been complacent. Hopefully soon, I’ll be working through how I now feel about each of the things below. Anyhoo, just so it exists somewhere:
*Our fundamental belief is that we are Undocumented, Unafraid, Unashamed and Unapologetic.
In order to answer this, we must first examine the identities we consciously choose not to identify with. Why not “illegal” or “illegal alien?” The term illegal alien creates an “us vs. them” narrative that is used to associate us with positive-negative binaries: we are good and they are bad, we are human and they are alien, we are white and they are of color, or we are normal and they are foreign. To be an alien is to not be human, and to deprive us of our humanity is to rob us of our fundamental existence and deny us our agency.
The term “illegal alien” is one of the most powerful tools of anti-immigrants, and we refuse to continue to be perpetuators of our own oppression by identifying as such. Thus the first step in repairing this damage is to insist on dropping the I-word, as many of our youth have done. As we dissolve our ties to the term “illegal,” our voices emerge and allow us to reconstruct a new narrative of “us” – a collective, undocumented-owned and –led identity.
Why not “dreamer?” While we do not reject nor disrespect the term dreamer, we feel that we, as undocumented youth, are more than legislation. While our identity is one closely tied to hopes of passage of the DREAM Act, we hesitate to so strongly tie our struggle for one piece of paper to our work for passage of another piece of paper. In an effort to remain as inclusive as possible, we recognize that not all undocumented youth meet the eligibility requirements of the DREAM Act, and to build an collective identity solely around that term would be a great disservice.
The words “I Am Undocumented” are a powerful declaration of identity, representing the ability to self-identify rather than continuing to accept identities created for us by others who do not live our daily experience.
To be undocumented and unafraid does not mean you are never afraid. To be unafraid is to have the courage to work through our fears and our weaknesses and thus emerge stronger, not to simply “rise above” our fear and pledge to deal with it another day.
Confronting our fears – ICE, deportation, detention, financial insufficiency, lack of access to education – is not an easy task, but until these fears are identified and faced, they will continue to hold ourselves and our community hostage, making us partake in our own oppression. Our greatest threat as undocumented people is not ICE or Secure Communities or being detained; it is our fear that grips us hostage, fear that we will not survive against any challenges that are thrown at us.
We are too familiar with “living life in the shadows,” shrouded in secrecy. We are taught from a young age that our lack of status is something to hide behind, something that makes us not worthy. It is time to shed the shame and the blame, for we are not undocumented by choice or lack of willpower. This is not to be confused with having pride in being undocumented, but rather creating the opportunity to rectify that huge portion of our identity that our status holds.
We seek to remove the stigma around being undocumented, especially that which has been internalized within our own communities, because we are more than our immigration status. It is about being unashamed of and having pride in our identity – as humans, immigrants, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, LGBTQ, organizers and friends, not our status.
In our quest to shift our advocacy and rhetoric towards one encompassing of being undocumented, unafraid and unashamed, we have been challenged, mocked and criticized repeatedly.
We remain unapologetic in our demand that those affected be at the forefront of our work, that their voices be heard, their opinions respected, and decisions about their future entrusted to their hands, and their hands only. We push everyone involved, whether undocumented or an ally, to frequently check the privilege they have within their experiences and relative to others in the community.
Having privilege is not necessarily bad, as we are all privileged in some relative sense. Refusing to truly acknowledge your privilege and its effects on your actions, words, and perspective within this movement only serves to disempower others, whether you realize it or not.
Why come out?
Coming out as undocumented is an ongoing process, a spectrum that can range from telling only your best friend to sharing your story and status in front of a crowd of 3,000 people or on a news broadcast that reaches tens of thousands. Every single coming out act, no matter how big or small, dramatic or simple, is equally important.
Choosing to come out publicly is not about politicians or about boosting the egos of the specific people who choose to do so. The message of coming out is not to urge all undocumented youth to reveal their status to every person and police officer they come in contact with, nor is it to imply that any youth must go as far as to risk arrest to seek validation from this movement. Choosing to come out as undocumented is not for the sake of public consumption or acceptance.
By coming out as undocumented, whether privately or publicly, you shape, build and create your own narrative and your experiences being undocumented. You put a face, a voice and a story to the word undocumented. Doing so is an act of defiance, a crack in the façade of those who choose to label you an “illegal alien,” for whoever has now heard your story will think of you and know there is no such thing. Perhaps you give another youth whose story resembles yours hope – not hope to become an organizer overnight or to risk arrest immediately – but simply hope to exist without self-hatred, hope to face the next day knowing that they are not struggling alone.
We feel that escalation and methods of non-violent direct action are one of the effective ways that undocumented youth can amplify their diverse voices and experiences, while forcing the general public to acknowledge that which the administration and ICE officials try to keep hidden. Lobbying, while useful and necessary in advocating for passage of legislation, can only go so far in serving the empowerment of youth. Undocumented immigrants have become the proverbial Tiny Tim, tiptoeing up to Congress holding an empty bowl marked “Freedom” and asking, “Please, Senator, could I have some more?”
Our message to undocumented youth is that they are worthy, worthy of freedom, dignity, and justice – things no one should ever have to beg and grovel for. We are unapologetic in our refusal to be used as political pawns or tokens of diversity, only to be discarded when the next hearing or election cycle ends.
In terms of patterns that have emerged in our actions, those patterns are exactly the point we are trying to make! In every action that has resulted in arrests, undocumented youth are taken to jail and end up being released soon after because ICE refuses to get involved. They refuse to get involved once we shine a bright light on their activities, and they choose to do their damage when people are defenseless and alone. Why do you think ICE raids happen in the dark of the night or the crack of dawn?
What are the critical takeaways of these escalations?
1. Being out about being undocumented (publicly or privately within the movement), though we have been programmed to think otherwise, is useful and beneficial for your protection. It gives you a support network in the event that something ever happens to you.
2. They highlight the hypocrisy of ICE/DHS operations, who specifically target those who live in fear and lack a community to fall back on for support. The administration would have us believe that they are not targeting youth for deportation, yet if this were true, END cases (for youth) would become obsolete.
Coming out and acts of civil disobedience serve to empower undocumented youth for their own protection and to highlight the blatant injustices committed by ICE on a daily basis.
It is imperative that we dig deeper than politics, legislation or economics. Our fight is about our lives, about survival in the simplest sense of the word. About reversing the psychological and internal damage that has been done to the undocumented community. About eradicating the self-hate in immigrant children, documented or undocumented, and reminding them they are worthy of a home, of their humanity. About repairing the rift between undocumented youth who are taught to blame their parents and the parents who would sacrifice themselves for the betterment of their children again and again.
Again, there is a difference between building a movement and running consecutive campaigns. While we do not underestimate the need for the latter, we focus our efforts on the former, for our freedom must start from within. We do not seek validation or agreement, but respect. We cannot and do not purport to speak for all undocumented youth and their experiences, but we wish to create spaces that are open and supportive for those who choose a multi-faceted, collective approach to our struggles.
If any of the above makes us radical, then so it shall be, for we will no longer be apologetic of nor defend the ways in which we seek our liberation.
“The food movement has been slow to recognise the fact that worker rights and working conditions should be a key part of any discussion about the ethics of food. Reforms to the food system need to incorporate workers and their welfare, not just better farming practices, more humane treatment of animals, and other measures focusing on food as an end product. Food is also a process, and the people involved in that process have a right to fair treatment, something they don’t have currently. The continued marginalisation of farmworkers and the focus on other issues in the food movement speaks poorly of the movement overall, and reveals some telling attitudes about labour, race, and entitlement.”—Know Your Food System: Indigenous Farmworkers in California – this ain’t livin’ (via sinshine)
“Being strong doesn’t mean hiding your pain. It doesn’t mean forgoing help when you’re struggling. It doesn’t mean denying yourself things that feel good for the sake of practicing self-control. It doesn’t mean refusing to show sadness and vulnerability. And it doesn’t mean carrying the burdens of life all by yourself. Anything that prevents your healing and stifles your growth does not correspond with strength. Being strong means refusing to tolerate people and things that wound your soul. It means practicing self-care when you’re hurting. It means honoring your feelings by actually allowing yourself to feel and express them. It means treating yourself with compassion and kindness, even when you feel like you don’t deserve any. It means doing what makes you happy and being with people who make you feel good, regardless of outside judgements. It means asking for help when the weight of the world has become too much. It means giving yourself permission to get your needs met by setting boundaries and using your voice. It means forgiving yourself on the days that you’re struggling and can’t be brave. It means challenging the voice telling you that you’re inadequate and worthless and reminding yourself, repeatedly, that you are enough.”—
i read so much theory that sometimes i begin to think about the world in a very disconnected esoteric way. it is very disconcerting, this disenfranchisement that sometimes sets in between my lived experiences and my politics. i forget myself, i lose myself… but sometimes i find myself in a hot…
“Diaspora is simultaneously a state of being and a process of becoming, a kind of voyage that encompasses the possibility of never arriving or returning, a navigation of multiple belongings.”—Paul Tiyambe Zeleza (via manufactoriel)
Dakarai Molokomme, a 15-year-old starving child from a small village in Zimbabwe, has just told Madonna, one of the most famous pop stars in the world, to go and f*** herself, the local media are reporting exclusively.
“Yes, it’s true, I told Madonna to go f*** herself. Do…
1 out of every 6 children in Africa die before the age of 5.
1 out of every 6 children in Europe also die before the age of 5
the only difference is, the media isn’t obsessed with humiliating, exploiting, stereotyping, exotifying and ignoring the privacy of naked young white defenseless children in the name of ‘saving Europe’