This blog is a hot mess run by a classy dame.
That's all.

zubat:

edonaghey:

"There is a fundamental concern that the content of such magazines normalizes the treatment of women as sexual objects. We are not killjoys or prudes who think that there should be no sexual information and media for young people. But are teenage boys and young men best prepared for fulfilling love and sex when they normalize views about women that are disturbingly close to those mirrored in the language of sexual offenders?" - Dr. Peter Hegarty

Could you tell the difference?

  1. Rapist
  2. Rapist
  3. Lad Mag
  4. Lad Mag
  5. Rapist
  6. Lad Mag
  7. Rapist
  8. Lad Mag
  9. Rapist
  10. Lad Mag
  11. Rapist
  12. Lad Mag
  13. Rapist
  14. Rapist
  15. Lad Mag
  16. Lad Mag

But rape culture doesn’t exist, right?

Artist:Unknown Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Title: UnknownAnte Up
1,363 plays

napoleonbonerhard:

aww hell yeah magical girls represent

semitic:

sancophaleague:

In 1923, Rosewood was a primarily Black town in Florida. One day a White woman living in a nearby town had been beaten and robbed. Afraid they would find the real attacker who was her husband, she told police and her town residents that it was a Black man. Immediately a mob of White men and women took to the streets to find the so called attacker. The first Black Man they ran into was Sam Carter. He was tortured relentlessly until he admitted to participating in the White woman’s attack. After being forced to admit something he did not do, they shot him in the head in front of his wife. This was not enough and they continued their reign of terror. The mob traveled across town killing and burning down any and everything they saw in their sight. They burned houses, stores, and almost all the BLACK CHURCHES. Eventually the Black town residents had enough and they began to fight back but this did not amount to much because the Mob had grown too big. The most disturbing event of the entire standoff was the murder of a 4 year old Black girl. As the little girl lay over her mother’s dead body crying, two members of the white mob grabbed her by her ankles and threw her into a nearby burning building. Days later after the town was deserted and things calmed down, the mob returned to check for survivors and burn anything else they had missed.  The Rosewood Massacre is something that is rarely spoken of these days. Over 150 Black Residents were killed; many of their bodies found hanging from trees. Very few of the Black Residents managed to escape and others would never return to the land they had spent their whole lives developing. White people have committed the most atrocious acts the world could ever imagine against Black people. Don’t ever let them convince you to forget.

Written by @KingKwajo

 

If you sign up for the Bright Futures scholarship here in Florida, they ask if you’re a direct descendant of a victim of “The Rosewood Incident”. Signing up for bright futures, that’s the first time I ever even heard of it.
And right in my back fuckin yard, too.
Makes you wonder what else they’ve made people forget.

turn-the-lights-out:

royals by virginia-ateh

thecowaswhiteasmilk:

theatre, i whisper.

"

When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

"

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

englishsnow:

 pau’lin

RF