one girl scrolled past this and woke up without boobs
Forever reblog cuz I don’t wanna wake up without boobs.
the notes omg
will reblogging this make them bigger? Bongi, do not reblog this I REPEAT, BONGI DO NOT REBLOG THIS
Join the Washington D.C. Asian American community in thanking John and Mrs. Tinpe and their staff for their 25 years of not only serving the community but being of service to the community.
Burma Restaurant is closing December 31st. The building was sold and all the tenants told to leave. Please join Thursday to show our support for The Tinpes. Let’s spread the sad news and fill up the restaurant every lunch and dinner between now and the 31st! If you are catering holiday parties or looking for a place for a holiday party, please patronize Burma one last time. The Tinpes have always been there for us, now let’s be there for them!
Please rsvp HERE. See you on Thursday! Expected cost per person $20-25.
Back in the days, before the Oslo agreement, and before the creation of a crippled and a cuffed authority, when the rest of Palestine was lost to the Zionists, the status of the Palestinians in the West-bank and the Gaza strip turned to “occupied.” Now all the Palestinians in the land of Palestine, whether inside or outside the green line, started to suffer the humiliation of the occupying intruder, as a secondhand citizens in their own home.
For the moment being, and because it is not the subject of this piece, it is needless to state and list the daily living of an occupied population. However, I would like to talk about an aspect and a manifestation of the Palestinian resistance. Something that wowed me because of the creativity in it.
Back in the days - somehow, even now - it was strictly forbidden to raise the Palestinian flag, whether in the newly occupied lands or the 1948 occupied territories. As they are trying to attribute to themselves, and basically steal, our culture, food, Kufeyeh, and Embroidery, they are trying to cancel out our flag that units us in order to “wipe us from the map” and from the minds of the masses. However, their actions backfired because the Palestinian flag is now, even more sacred in the minds and hearts of the Palestinians; and symbolises our history of resistance and our unification under its colors.
Because it was forbidden to raise the flag, Palestinians used to and still do, take watermelons and cut them in half and just raise them, showing the inside part. The watermelon contains the same colors as the Palestinian flag: red, white, green and black. This way, they have challenged the occupation and its unjust rules. The watermelon, this oval greenish fruit, became a strong symbol in the everyday life of Palestinians. Small and simple gestures can inflict huge outcomes. Small and simple gestures yet creative and smart. The occupier knew the strength of it, so they used to beat up people and merchants who carried or displayed watermelons cut in half.
A cause, a flag, a watermelon, resistance, freedom!
Now, in marches, lots of people raise the different flags of the militant/political parties. I believe that all these flags should be cancelled out in marches, and one flag should be raised proudly with its four colors to strengthen our unity and cause: the Palestinian flag!
A Palestinian Merchants “displaying” his product.
By: Ahmed Mesleh. Visit his page on fb!
The federal government is currently operating under a short term Resolution
So by Jan 15th Congress needs to find a budget solution
Or then we will be facing a shutdown
Which last time made DC a ghost town
We need a budget to finish the sequester
So the spending cap needs to increase by the end of the semester
Because our government is our economy’s biggest investor,
The wealthy and corporations also need to pay their fair share,
So if someone is attacked by a bear
They are protected by Medicare,
And so everyone has aid:
Social Security and the Affordable Care Act,
and public investments to get our economy back
It’s time to end the politics of austerity
When good jobs are a rarity
That’s why we support immigration reform
To improve the job norm
And so families are not torn
Because We Are All In This Together
To make America a little better
To make good on the independence letter
That’s why we’re organizing fast food to adjunct
So our country doesn’t defunct
We are the voice for the common good,
And need to not be misunderstood
This is opportunity to make a change
So this in this exchange
We won’t allow America to be shortchanged
"Deadskins" is a popular reference to the Redsk*ns team by both fans opposed to the team and by team fans when the team performs "poorly."
For those who still don’t know Redskin literally means the scalp of a dead Indian man, woman, or child.
Honor treaties Not mascots
What I lost was not an object, something easily disposable, because humans are unable to be recreated. The fruit of my mother’s womb, the seed of my father, a creation of love between two people, people very young and naïve.
“She is here, your sister” said my parents. She was born on March 3rd with biliary atresia, nothing had prepared our family for the months ahead of us. A moment of screams and cries that marked a beginning to a new battle.
A twenty one year old dad, juggling three jobs to support medical bills for his unhealthy child, an anxious wife, and me, a growing child in a third world country, is now a story shared by a man who no longer sees the experience as a time of sadness but counts the moments of happiness. Tears in his eyes, “I was on my way to my second job and to drop food for your mom at the hospital, your small hands holding onto mine. You knew we were approaching your abuela’s house,” he said. “As your sister got sicker, your mom and I began to feel the guilt of leaving you. That day as I was leaving, you said to me, ‘Daddy won’t you stay and play?’ It broke my heart seeing you there, knowing that we were never around. You were mad at me when I came back” he says wiping tears. “It was the day our visas were approved, your sister’s, mom and mine. You wouldn’t be coming with us but you didn’t know that. I hadn’t taken the time to spend that day with you, it was the last day I saw you for another year.” I will never forget this moment, the moment he cried and his wall came down. I felt the pain and regret he had kept to himself, that had portrayed a broken man.
I didn’t see my mother but the stories she tells never fail to remind me all she did. Sad stories, but necessary to characterize my outlook on life and how I viewed my mother. A strong woman who fought through malnutrition, not leaving my sister’s hospital bedside, knocking on doors for help to pay hospital bills, setting herself up for feelings of belittlement but never calling them that. “I would do anything for my kids” she would say. During our mother daughter dinner, I asked my mom a question I had been aching to ask but scared would trigger too many emotions. I asked ,“How did I feel?” She slowly breathed in, “You didn’t feel anyway, you didn’t know she was gone. To you she was just another toy. What you were worried about was the separation from me and your dad. After a year away, I received a letter saying you refused to eat and you were grumpy often. We had planned to work in America for three years, make some money and come back to you with a better life in Peru after your sister’s death. I decided to return, leaving your father behind; the first week back was the hardest for me. You refused to talk to me and when you did you would ask me where your dad was, you wouldn’t let me tuck you into bed. I understood. You had always been daddy’s girl,” she begins to cry. “After experiencing some of America, I wanted more and I wanted more for you. I did everything I could to bring you back with me. If it weren’t for your sister, we wouldn’t be here. Not here in this country, not in this state, and not in this Peruvian restaurant.” She cried and I cried.
An unknown experience and tragedy that impacted my life more than I could understand as a child. It gave me a chance. A chance at opportunity. An opportunity at the American Dream. My American Dream.
Hi, my name’s Eniola and I’m 20 years old. I’m Nigerian and Brazillian. I currently live and study in London (England) I am in my final year of my undergrad law degree, but the most of my family lives in Lagos Nigeria, and I go back home about every three months. I want to be a human rights lawyer with the goal to eventually work in war crimes and genocide.
I’m really passionate about my culture and making sure it is preserved and well respected (I am Yoruba and I also identify as Afro-Latina), and making sure I am well connected to my heritage is really important to me. And I am planning on moving back to Lagos at some point in the near future when I am finished with my education.
Also I think I’m the only mod that lives outside the US so hopefully that will bring a slightly different perspective to the blog! But yeah if you have any questions or want to know anything more you can always check out my personal blog, mon-la-ala-ile :) hopefully that will bring a slightly different perspective to the blog!
However, The Joy of Yiddish does offer more nuance, history, etymology and respect towards Yiddish than many of its contemporaries on Jewish culture in the 60’s and 70’s, filling in and important niche of Jewish education. At that point there was not a lot going on Yiddishly for typical American Jews, and it’s still in print, which is quite a good thing.
The material success that many Iranians have enjoyed in this country has obscured their connections with other discriminated groups, and instead fostered an attitude of âlay low, donât make trouble…
And yet, identifying as White does not erase the problems of discrimination faced by generations of Iranians in the United States, and has instead merely led to a perplexing situation whereby Iranians are discriminated against based on their ethnic background but continue clinging to the myth of Whiteness with the desperate hope that claiming Whiteness will somehow save them.
The material success that many Iranians have enjoyed in this country, meanwhile, has obscured their connections with other discriminated groups, and instead fostered an attitude of “lay low, don’t make trouble,” that idealizes financial success as the key to realizing the American Dream. “We’re good Persians,” community leaders seem to say, not like those “Bad Iranians” over there that we all hate so much. Despite the racial discrimination Iranians regularly face as a community in the United States, many continue to insist upon their own Whiteness, refusing to even consider the question, “Are Iranians People of Color?”
Interesting read. Thoughts followers?
I’m not American but my dad is Iranian and this article speaks a lot to how that side of my family fears being identified as a terrorist other, my dad will often joke when he hears of a terrorist attack on the news that he “hopes its not an Iranian guy” or “I hope his name isn’t muhammad.” Overall, his side of the family that lives in Canada and the US are white passing, his sisters are all rather fair and I remember him saying two of them used to have blonde hair when they were young girls. My cousins, my sister and I, however, work the range from white passing to completely not. But my father will often say that Persian people are white people, it may stem from the fact that until relatively recently Iranians were supposed to check “white” on census surveys, regardless, as white passing people it is much easier to navigate society. In my experience, with my family, Iranians occupy a space where they cannot let go of their racial superiority complexes and at the same time have to combat the world constructing their people and their homeland as backwards terrorists. When Iranian people strongly construct themselves apart as other people from the middle east, such as Arabic people, they are obviously implicit in a system of racial hierarchies that happens in Western society. They become the “good” middle easterns, model minorities, they don’t cause trouble, their connection with their religion may be lax, they aren’t “terrorists” and they work hard in pursuing the “American dream” as “good consumers” in a western economy. It’s important to Iranians, like myself, to understand the privileged space that we hold and at the same time not allow ourselves to be taken into this racist system which keeps us oppressed and allows us to work the system to keep others oppressed as well. It’s a complicated thing, but I think that if Iranian people keep identifying themselves as white they are preventing themselves from seeing the oppression that happens precisely because they are not white. And also cannot see how they contribute to the oppression of others through their white passing racial supremacist ideology.
reminds me of how my brown father would always make horrible comments about me having “too many mexican friends” and looking down on black people too. i’d look at him sideways like…. i may be pretty white passing but uhhhh, you’re not, so why are you trying to fit in with white men so badly. and he has the typical persian “we’re not arabs~~~” complex and ok sure we’re not arabs but ???? whites and people in general pretty much lump anyone middle eastern or brown into that category, and we’re all supposedly terrorists anyway. stop kissing white people’s asses, as if we aren’t discriminated against by them and arent hated by so many of them. i dont know any iranians who would ever associate themselves with whiteness. even the ones who are fair-skinned or white passing. the majority i know are brown as it is, including my dad, so saying, “oh but middle eastern people are caucasian!!!” is the weakest, most ignorant argument. arabs, persians, and so many others dont get our own categories when it comes to filling out forms, so that forces us to lump ourselves together with the same people who oppress us, hate us, call us terrorists. plus the term “caucasian” is problematic as it is. iranians arent white lmao get over itglad someone wrote this article
FROM Toni Morrison’s BELOVED:
“What was more—much more—out there were whitepeople and how could you tell about them? Sethe said the mouth and sometimes the hands. Grandma Baby said there was no defense—they could prowl at will, change from one mind to another, and even when they thought they were behaving, it was a far cry from from what real humans did.
“They got me out of jail,” Sethe once told Baby Suggs.
“They also put you in it,” she answered.
“They drove you ‘cross the river.”
“On my son’s back.”
“They gave you this house.”
“Nobody GAVE me nothing.”
“I got a job from them.”
“He got a cook from them, girl.”
“Oh, some of them do all right by us.”
“And every time it’s a surprise, ain’t it? Don’t box with me. There’s more of us they drowned than there is all of them ever lived from the start of time.”