julithegoon:

yourhappyymess:

dope-is-my-hustle:

Orange in his Hand
I see two men sweatat the exitof the freeway.
One is brown and burntfrom the sun raysthe other is whitewith an American Flagstitched across his trucker hat.
They both wear dirty clothes.They both burn to holda little green.
One sells oranges, walking upand down the street. One holds a sign that reads,“I’m hungry, help me eat.”I feel for both of them,but I only admire one.
The one who handsoranges in bags to tired faces,who chases carsfor his change,who counts penniesas profitto keep his apartment.
The one whose wife wakesbefore sunrise to walkthrough Los Angeles streetsyelling “tamales, tamales”with a 4 year old daughter at her side.
The mother who crossed over4 years earlier so her daughterwouldn’t have to sell tamaleswith a baby at her side.
The father tells his sonnever to beg,but to work hard for the bread.So the son sells Cheetosat his high schooland gets called beanerfor not owning named brand clothes.A son who must bring dollarsbefore good gradesbecause rent is two weeks late.A son who will one day hold a gun to the headof a liquor store clerk,only to remember his father’s words.
Mijo, work hard for the bread.
Rent is two weeks late so the familybreaks tax laws to make jobsand they lifts roses to the skyhoping someone passing byis falling in love again,so the familytakes elotesto the neighborhood projectshoping the ninos are hungry.
The news says this family is hereto take my job, my seat in school, my country,but the only thing they’re taking is the riskof being handcuffed,broken and deportedin the name of familyin the name of lovein the name of trying everything to stay abovethe currentand that is whyI can’t help
But to admire the manwith an orange in his hand,a fireball of hunger in his palm.
I love my people. We are hard workers and we never beg for money. How often do you see a Latino beggar? Exactly, it’s rare. Why? Because we work for our money. If it means selling flowers, corn, fruit, ice cream, whatever it is, we WORK for it. We don’t ask for anything for free. All we want is a better future for our families and we are willing to work for it! So how are you going to say we don’t belong in this country of opportunity when we actually take advantage of that opportunity and WORK for a better life instead of fuckin standing at a corner of a McDonald’s waiting for someone to drop a coin or two into a fuckin cup?

Bless this post


Best post on tumblr

julithegoon:

yourhappyymess:

dope-is-my-hustle:

Orange in his Hand

I see two men sweat
at the exit
of the freeway.

One is brown and burnt
from the sun rays
the other is white
with an American Flag
stitched across his trucker hat.

They both wear dirty clothes.
They both burn 
to hold
a little green.

One sells oranges, walking up
and down the street. 
One holds a sign that reads,
“I’m hungry, help me eat.”
I feel for both of them,
but I only admire one.

The one who hands
oranges in bags to tired faces,
who chases cars
for his change,
who counts pennies
as profit
to keep his apartment.

The one whose wife wakes
before sunrise to walk
through Los Angeles streets
yelling “tamales, tamales”
with a 4 year old daughter 
at her side.

The mother who crossed over
4 years earlier so her daughter
wouldn’t have to sell tamales
with a baby at her side.

The father tells his son
never to beg,
but to work hard for the bread.
So the son sells Cheetos
at his high school
and gets called beaner
for not owning 
named brand clothes.
A son who must bring dollars
before good grades
because rent is two weeks late.
A son who will one day hold 
a gun to the head
of a liquor store clerk,
only to remember 
his father’s words.

Mijo, work hard for the bread.

Rent is two weeks late 
so the family
breaks tax laws to make jobs
and they lifts roses to the sky
hoping someone passing by
is falling in love again,
so the family
takes elotes
to the neighborhood projects
hoping the ninos are hungry.

The news says this family is here
to take my job, 
my seat in school, 
my country,
but the only thing they’re taking 
is the risk
of being handcuffed,
broken and deported
in the name of family
in the name of love
in the name of trying 
everything to stay above
the current
and that is why
I can’t help

But to admire the man
with an orange in his hand,
a fireball of hunger in his palm.

I love my people. We are hard workers and we never beg for money. How often do you see a Latino beggar? Exactly, it’s rare. Why? Because we work for our money. If it means selling flowers, corn, fruit, ice cream, whatever it is, we WORK for it. We don’t ask for anything for free. All we want is a better future for our families and we are willing to work for it! So how are you going to say we don’t belong in this country of opportunity when we actually take advantage of that opportunity and WORK for a better life instead of fuckin standing at a corner of a McDonald’s waiting for someone to drop a coin or two into a fuckin cup?

Bless this post

Best post on tumblr

TPAs are from the devil himself. 

I wish black men defended us the way they defend Iggy Azalea.

the-fittest-bitch:

Why I hate Iggy Azalea

Really good video. “It’s not about talent, it’s about the popularity contest.”

mihlayn:

new zealand’s finest

mihlayn:

new zealand’s finest

rebel6:

by Brock Hofer

rebel6:

by Brock Hofer

rnusicality:

fun statistics for adults!
“when I was a kid, I had no help with college tuition, I was hardworking and paid it all myself”
-Annual tuition for Yale, 1970: $2,550
-Annual tuition for Yale, 2014: $45,800
-Minimum Wage, 1970: $1.45
-Minimum Wage, 2014: $7.25
-Daily hours at minimum wage needed to pay for tuition in 1970: 4.8
-Daily hours at minimum wage needed to pay for tuition in 2014: 17.3

deycallmetrey:

How about a new album frank

In the future I would like to teach lessons based on certain Tumblr posts. There’s so much relevancy on Tumblr when it comes to the topic of gender roles, identity, consent, white privilege, rape culture, police state, racism and women’s issues.

cartel:

when you think you’re doing good in class and you get your first assignment back

image

“Lo único que podíamos hacer era existir el uno para el otro exclusivamente como recordatorio del propio yo.”

Pasos, Jerzy Kosinski. (via likelucyinthesky)

gohomeluhan:

As I’m walking through Target with my little sister, the kid somehow manages to convince me to take a trip down the doll aisle. I know the type - brands that preach diversity through displays of nine different variations of white and maybe a black girl if you’re lucky enough. What I instead found as soon as I turned into the aisle were these two boxes.

The girl on the left is Shola, an Afghani girl from Kabul with war-torn eyes. Her biography on the inside flap tells us that “her country has been at war since before she was born”, and all she has left of her family is her older sister. They’re part of a circus, the one source of light in their lives, and they read the Qur’an. She wears a hijab.

The girl on the right is Nahji, a ten-year-old Indian girl from Assam, where “young girls are forced to work and get married at a very early age”. Nahji is smart, admirable, extremely studious. She teaches her fellow girls to believe in themselves. In the left side of her nose, as tradition mandates, she has a piercing. On her right hand is a henna tattoo.

As a Pakistani girl growing up in post-9/11 America, this is so important to me. The closest thing we had to these back in my day were “customizable” American Girl dolls, who were very strictly white or black. My eyes are green, my hair was black, and my skin is brown, and I couldn’t find my reflection in any of those girls. Yet I settled, just like I settled for the terrorist jokes boys would throw at me, like I settled for the butchered pronunciations of names of mine and my friends’ countries. I settled for a white doll, who at least had my eyes if nothing else, and I named her Rabeea and loved her. But I still couldn’t completely connect to her.

My little sister, who had been the one to push me down the aisle in the first place, stopped to stare with me at the girls. And then the words, “Maybe they can be my American Girls,” slipped out of her mouth. This young girl, barely represented in today’s society, finally found a doll that looks like her, that wears the weird headscarf that her grandma does and still manages to look beautiful.

I turned the dolls’ boxes around and snapped a picture of the back of Nahji’s. There are more that I didn’t see in the store; a Belarusian, an Ethiopian, a Brazilian, a Laotian, a Native American, a Mexican. And more.

These are Hearts 4 Hearts dolls, and while they haven’t yet reached all parts of the world (I think they have yet to come out with an East Asian girl), they need all the support they can get so we can have a beautiful doll for every beautiful young girl, so we can give them what our generation never had.

Please don’t let this die. If you know a young girl, get her one. I know I’m buying Shola and Nahji for my little sister’s next birthday, because she needs a doll with beautiful brown skin like hers, a doll who wears a hijab like our older sister, a doll who wears real henna, not the blue shit white girls get at the beach.

The Hearts 4 Hearts girls are so important. Don’t overlook them. Don’t underestimate them. These can be the future if we let them.

You can read more about the dolls here: http://www.playmatestoys.com/brands/hearts-for-hearts-girls

purrfectly-alex:

white-wid0w:

sexlibris:

"Morning lazy sex" for iamartemisday 

this is gorgeous

My dream

“Life will give you whatever experience is most helpful for the evolution of your consciousness. How do you know this is the experience you need? Because this is the experience you are having at the moment.”

–  Eckhart Tolle (via purplebuddhaproject)