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It reminds me of the ‘bike to work’ movement. That is also portrayed as white, but in my city more than half of the people on bike are not white. I was once talking to a white activist who was photographing ‘bike commuters’ and had only pictures of white people with the occasional ‘Black professional’. I asked her why she didn’t photograph the delivery people, construction workers etc., i.e. the Black and [Latin@] and Asian people, and she mumbled something about trying to ‘improve the image of biking’ then admitted that she didn’t really see them as part of the ‘green movement’ since they ‘probably have no choice’.

I was so mad I wanted to quit working on the project she and I were collaborating on.

So, in the same way when people in a poor neighborhood grow food in their yards, it’s just being poor — but when white people do it they are saving the earth or something.

comment left on the Racialious blog post “Sustainable Food & Privilege: Why is Green always White (and Male and Upper-Class)” (via sister-bell)

(Source: trilliswheatley)

I drip apologies like a leaky faucet. When I open up to you, I immediately follow it with “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that.”
Like I’m apologizing for feeling.
Like I’m apologizing for telling someone who cares about me how I really feel.
When you tried wiping away the tears I left on your shirt I whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
Like leaving a piece of yourself on someone’s sleeve is something to be ashamed of.
Like showing yourself in your rawest state is something to apologize for.
I stain your lips with the word sorry and leave the after taste of endless apologies after we kiss.
This poem is an apology to all my wasted nights saying sorry to people who never deserved it. Saying sorry as an excuse to stop fighting. Saying sorry for things that did not need an apology followed by them.
This poem is an apology for never saying sorry to the one person who deserved it most: me. I’m sorry for not valuing your actions and feelings enough to let them live without killing them with an apology.
apologies linger in my mouth like the taste of your tongue (via restrictedthoughts)

(Source: restrictedthoughts)

And how hard is it to land even a minimum-wage job? This year, the Ivy League college admissions acceptance rate was 8.9%. Last year, when Walmart opened its first store in Washington, D.C., there were more than 23,000 applications for 600 jobs, which resulted in an acceptance rate of 2.6%, making the big box store about twice as selective as Harvard and five times as choosy as Cornell. Telling unemployed people to get off their couches (or out of the cars they live in or the shelters where they sleep) and get a job makes as much sense as telling them to go study at Harvard.
"Why Don’t the Unemployed Get Off Their Couches?" and Eight Other Critical Questions for Americans (via seriouslyamerica)

themarysue:

uncleorpheus:

“She makes these like needlework embroideries on set in the tedium of filming”, says MacFadyen, “but they are all: ‘You Are a Cunt’. And she gives them as presents. And it’s Dame Judi Dench. And she is doing this beautifully, intricate, ornate (work). You kind of see the work materializing as the shoot goes on. Like: ‘You Are a Fucking Shit.’ Knightley never received her embroidered cushion from Dench but remarks: “I love that! She gives this fantastic air. She just sits there and she embroiders and you think: ‘Oh, that’s so nice! It’s Judi Dench. It’s so quaint; she’s embroidering a cushion,’ and you go: ‘What are you embroidering?’ And (it says): ‘Fuck!’ Apparently she’s got hundreds of them just covered in swear words or rude sayings.”

(Source: pemberley-state-of-mind)

humansofnewyork:

The woman in the blue coat approached me by the United Nations building yesterday, and said: ‘There is an interesting man around the corner that you should photograph. I don’t know his name, but everyday he stands directly across from the UN, and says ‘God Bless You’ to everyone who walks past. I’ve always sort of viewed him as the conscience of the world.’
'Let's go together,' I said, and she agreed to bring me to where he was standing. When we finally found the man, I asked for his photo, and he cheerfully agreed. But he pointed at a nearby wall:
"Let’s take the photo under that scripture," he said.

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