No explanation needed.
Rain or shine, day or night, Nicole Effendy of racheletnicole rocks the New Avant Garde with a confident #EasyBreezyStyle.
If you’re gonna put sponsored ads on my blog please let them be more like this: less untagged gif crap and more beautiful women of color.
Impoverished Black and Brown communities do not exist for white people to enter, stay in for a week or so and then come out as though they’re saints because they hugged little Black and Brown kids. #stopthewhitesaviorcomplex2k14
I was born in the wrong generation. This generation is still racist as fuck and I can’t download a pizza. Wake me up in the year 3019.
Anonymous said: I wonder if white people realize that every time they claim PoC are 'keeping racism alive' but not putting up with bs, that it's actually victim blaming, the thing they love to complain about so much. They don't care about racism being 'kept alive' they just don't like the thought that they could do anything wrong.
The Children in Gaza Have Names (via btselem)
Published on Jul 23, 2014
B’Tselem learned from the media today that the Israel Broadcast Authority (IBA) had rejected an appeal against IBA Radio’s refusal to air a spot in which the names of Gazan children killed during Operation Protective Edge were read out. In response, B’Tselem posted the censored spot on Facebook. Within hours, almost 300,000 people had been exposed to the names and the post was shared more than 900 times.
Please honor the dead children of Palestine and Gaza. May their souls rest in peace.
truest shit ever spoken
yesterday, she finally mustered the courage to call her mother. with shaking hands and cracking voice, she told her how she couldn’t sleep. she couldn’t eat. her body felt heavy. something was inside of her that didn’t quite belong. the something was sitting on her chest. breathing was harder. thinking was harder. she told her what the doctor said. it was depression. her mother on the other end of the line sucked her teeth. she didn’t believe in such things. all her daughter needed to do was pray. she just needed to attend church more, read her bible more. nothing was wrong with her, it was juju. it was god testing. and so she went to church. she sat in the front pew, eyes fixated on the pastor. and when it was time for altar call, she peeled herself from the wooden seat to stand in the front. people surrounded her. they prayed, and screamed and placed holy water on her head. this would fix her they told her. she would be better. and so she went home, she opened her bible to psalms 121. she prayed harder, went to church every sunday. she would be fixed she told herself, all she needed was more god. but months past and the darkness inside of her began to spill over. she no longer enjoyed the activities she once did. her night walks in the park became nights of sitting in the dark. curtains closed, door locked. she no longer wrote poetry or baked her favorite hershey cookies. she barely slept and her mouth was sewed shut rejecting food and water. she was sinking deeper. god wasn’t fixing her. praying wasn’t fixing her. and so she reached for the white pills that sat next to her bible. 3 at a time she threw them down her throat. if she couldn’t pray the depression away, she would kill it.
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